


A Sparrow in the Wasteland

by thefirstlightofmorning



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: F/M, Maxson I love ya but Christ you're an ass in this story, repost, tags in chapters because I am lazy and I have a broken arm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:54:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 50,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27306628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefirstlightofmorning/pseuds/thefirstlightofmorning
Summary: A pre-War housewife and a Paladin of the Brotherhood of Steel are brought together in the search for her son.All the stories of 'A Sparrow in the Wasteland' are being merged into one under my new username.
Relationships: Paladin Danse/Female Sole Survivor
Comments: 63
Kudos: 33





	1. The World I Have Now

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for depression, death, violence and fantastic racism, grief/mourning and mentions of drug addiction. First Fallout fanfic with some AU elements, so enjoy! Now a repost under my new username, updated swiftly because cut/paste is easy for my arm and I don't want to lose my stories.

The feral ghouls in Cambridge were endless, a growling wave of rotting, irradiated flesh that would drown Recon Team Gladius and consign them to the same unmarked graves as the other two teams sent here by the Brotherhood of Steel. Knight Rhys was already down, Scribe Haylen kneeling by him and administering one of their precious stimpaks to his bite-crippled thigh. Danse held the line at the centre of the courtyard before the compound, intending to take as many ghouls to hell with him as he could. If he could buy Rhys and Haylen enough time to retreat back into the police station-

A flash of dust-filmed blue appeared in the corner of his eye just before the sound of another gun signalled hope like a trumpet. The civilian who entered the fray was firing wildly with shaking hands, the gold-edged garment that moulded to her body like a glove from neck to ankle emblazoned with 111 on the back. The 10mm pistol in her right hand was unmodified and dusty, clearly in need of proper tending, but the bullets were just as fatal as they struck the rabid ghouls.

The tactician within Danse advised taking advantage of the distraction the Vault Dweller presented by picking off the tougher ghouls while the lesser ones attacked her but the man dedicated to protecting others as a member of the Brotherhood of Steel demanded that he take action to save her. Three headshots with Righteous Authority cleared the space for the Vault Dweller to reload her gun with shaking hands – three attempts to get the cartridge into the pistol – and give Danse a despairing glance. Behind the Paladin, Scribe Haylen must have used the stimpak on Knight Rhys because she joined the battle again, coolly picking off the rest of the ghouls that surrounded the civilian.

“Hold the left flank!” Danse barked at the wild-eyed woman who’d stumbled into their battle. She obeyed, reaching the left entrance to the compound just in time for the next wave of ghouls to attack. If she could take orders, there was hope for her yet.

In the tight confines of the entranceways, the ghouls were easier to pick off, though when the Vault Dweller ran out of ammo she was reduced to smacking the creatures away with a nail-studded board. With a sudden cry of rage, she charged through the ghoul corpses and pulled a grenade from her belt-pouch, throwing it at a knot of rapidly approaching ferals. It exploded, leaving them shredded and crippled, and after ascertaining that no more approached, Danse strode out and finished them all with headshots.

After making certain of the other ghouls, he turned around to face the Vault Dweller, torn between thanking her for her assistance and asking just what the hell was she thinking to ignore orders and charge in like that. The woman had fallen to her knees, staring at violently trembling hands, and blood stained her vault suit.

“Haylen!” he barked. “Get a stimpak for the civilian!”

The slender Scribe, hair tucked up beneath her hat, ran over and jammed the stimpak into the Vault Dweller’s arm. “It’s over,” she told the civilian sympathetically as the healing chem did its work.

“Thanks,” rasped the woman as the needle was withdrawn from her arm.

Danse jerked his chin at Haylen and she wisely backed away as he approached the Vault Dweller. “Thank you for your assistance, civilian,” he said brusquely. “But what is your business here?”

“I’m trying to find my son,” the woman replied in a small, soft voice. “He’s a baby – someone took him.”

Haylen gave Danse a glare that dared him to say something negative about the woman. Given that the Scribe was their recon team’s medic as well as technologist, the Paladin wisely refused to accept the dare, instead trying to moderate his gruffness a little. The Vault Dweller _could_ have gone past while the ghouls were distracted, after all.

”Do you have any idea who took him?” he asked, figuring that he could at least send the woman in the direction of Diamond City, the greatest settlement in the Commonwealth. The Brotherhood of Steel didn’t have the resources – yet – to help find random children.

“Some balding bastard with scars on his face with some bitch in a hazmat suit,” the Vault Dweller answered bitterly.

“I’m afraid to say that no one matching that description has passed through Cambridge,” Danse told her. “Your best bet for answers would be Diamond City to the south – everything and everyone in the Commonwealth passes through there sooner or later.”

“Thank you,” she replied as she stood up, looking a little unsteady. “The world’s… changed a lot since 2077.”

Haylen’s eyes lit up and Danse sighed. “You survived the Great War?” the Scribe asked eagerly.

“My husband Nate, my son Shaun and I just made it to Vault 111 as the bombs fell,” the Vault Dweller replied as she hugged herself. “We were in some kind of cryo facility – put on ice – and only time I thawed out was when those bastards came to take my baby and kill my husband. Then… I woke up and the world has… altered beyond my imagining.”

“It’s 2287,” Danse told her gently. “I… don’t wish to be the bearer of bad news, but if you were frozen again, your son may be a man grown or even dead.”

The Vault Dweller made a small choked noise and the Paladin flushed with shame. He might have just ripped away the only hope this woman out of time had. But the wasteland was unforgiving of the weak and deluded.

Then the woman’s lips tightened in determination and her eyes hardened. “If that’s so, I’ll hunt the bastards down and destroy them,” she vowed softly.

“Paladin?” Haylen’s voice was tentative and when he looked at her, her gaze was thoughtful. “For someone to enter an unknown Vault and take a baby – that implies a high level of sophistication and organisation. Combine that with those disturbing energy readings I picked up…”

It was Haylen’s job to make connections between disparate pieces of information. Still, Danse rather thought she might be stretching it out of compassion for the poor mother who lost her baby.

“Paladin?” The Vault Dweller’s tone was uncertain.

“I am Paladin Danse, the woman is Scribe Haylen and the injured man is Knight Rhys,” he told her.

“Sparrow Finlay,” the Vault Dweller answered, offering her hand. “I apologise for my lack of manners. It’s been a trying couple days.”

He took it. Danse was gruff but he wasn’t completely without manners. “It’s been that way for all of us,” he reminded her as he shook it.

“Well, not everyone gets caught in a zombie apocalypse,” Sparrow noted with a flash of dry humour. “It’s good to meet people who aren’t intent on killing me for my vault suit and Pipboy.”

“I don’t know about _kill_ , but I’d love to examine it,” Haylen said chirpily. “Paladin, I think we and Sparrow might be able to help each other out.”

Danse released the woman’s hand and turned to the Scribe. “How so?”

“We need the Deep Range Transmitter at Arcjet Systems to broadcast to the Brotherhood,” Haylen answered, completely ignoring protocol about discussing Brotherhood business with outsiders, even sympathetic ones. “Rhys is injured and I can’t leave him – and he won’t accept an outsider treating him. It needs to be you and Sparrow.”

“I passed Arcjet on the way here,” Sparrow said quietly.

Danse sighed. He didn’t like working with outsiders and no matter how sympathetic Sparrow’s cause was, she was a civilian who was more helpless than even your average wastelander. But Haylen was also correct – he couldn’t go on his own when he commanded Recon Team Gladius and at least Sparrow had proven herself willing to help.

“You’re kidding,” Rhys said flatly from his position on the stairs of the police station. “She’s not one of us and frankly, she’s a lousy shot.”

“We don’t have a choice,” Haylen retorted. “If Danse can make me a soldier, he can do the same for her.”

“Just because of some sob story that mightn’t be true, you’re willing to piss away protocol?” Rhys demanded scornfully of the Scribe, who he’d sponsored into the Brotherhood.

“We need her help,” Haylen said flatly. “We have ammo for three more days and supplies for six. Unless you have a better suggestion, I’d like to hear it.”

“Haylen’s right,” Danse confirmed. “Unfortunately.”

“I have some stuff,” Sparrow offered, pulling off a satchel that rattled metallically and upending it onto the crackled concrete. Another 10mm pistol, several pipe pistols and a mixture of ammo poured out alongside several different chems, four stimpaks, a few days’ worth of food and some wild plants. “All I could carry from the bandits who tried to kill me.”

Haylen assessed the supplies with an experienced eye. “That could buy us a day or two more.”

“Three if we ration,” Danse, no stranger to scrounging himself from his days in Rivet City, observed.

He looked up at the reddening sky. “We can offer shelter and clean water for the night no matter what you decide, Sparrow, but we need your help. Our situation here is grim and well… if we fail, the consequences could be catastrophic.”

“I’d appreciate the shelter,” Sparrow immediately answered. “And… I’ll help. You didn’t have to keep the ghouls off me, Paladin.”

“You were assisting the Brotherhood,” Danse said awkwardly. “It was the least I could do.”

He and Haylen got Rhys, who didn’t look happy with their decision to include Sparrow on the mission, inside as the Vault Dweller followed. They had a spare sleeping bag from the Initiate they lost in Medford, so there was somewhere for Sparrow to sleep.

Danse noted approvingly that the first thing Sparrow did was excuse herself and go to the bathroom, emerging in a clean vault suit with the grime and blood wiped off, hair damp from washing. Beneath the dust and dirt, she was a small woman, straight chestnut hair pulled into a bun at the nape of the neck, her intelligent brown eyes peering out of a tanned, slightly careworn face. Something had left a scar that slid across the left side of her mouth and down to her chin while there was a patch of lighter skin spread across her cheek above it, a birthmark or some such thing.

“Thank you,” she said as she sat down on the sleeping bag left pointedly empty for her.

Scribe Haylen produced the first acceptable meal in weeks, combining the standard Brotherhood rations of Instamash and Blamco Mac and Cheese with the tatos and potato crisps Sparrow brought to create a carb-heavy crunchy baked dish that would keep well over the next couple days if they all ate some sparingly. Danse watch the Vault Dweller eat, noting that her initial rush of energy had subsided, leaving her shaky and subdued. There had been Jet in the satchel she emptied.

_I’d better make sure she isn’t addicted to the chems,_ he thought grimly. The occasional use of Buffout or Jet was permissible in Brotherhood doctrine, but if any member of the order became addicted, they were forcibly weaned off the drugs the first time they were caught and then thrown out on the second. While she helped them, Sparrow was effectively an Initiate and he would treat her as one.

“Sleep well,” he advised her as he took their bowls to be scraped back into the pot and then washed. “It will be a long day tomorrow and we leave at first light.”

…

Sparrow flinched inwardly as Danse packed up their supplies, deliberately setting aside the Jet. Since she’d emerged from Vault 111 and stumbled across the wasteland to Cambridge, she’d avoided unconsciousness by inhaling the chem – she feared to lose more time in blackness. But surrounded by the even breathing of Haylen, the snort-snork of Rhys and the gravelly snore of Danse, she’d slipped into the darkness softly, feeling safe for the moment.

The Paladin had woken her about an hour ago, handing her a bowl of Sugar Bombs that were soaked into a sweet mush with clean warm water. Once she’d scooped it out with her fingers, leaving no scrap behind, and washed her bowl, he picked up her 10mm pistol and showed her how to clean and modify the gun using the scrap that the Brotherhood of Steel had collected as he explained his order’s mission of searching for and neutralising dangerous technology. It was an interesting reaction to the Great War and the devastation the bombs had left behind, one that Sparrow found herself agreeing with. Nate would have been up there with Danse, wearing the heavy power armour like it was cloth and wielding a mini-gun to mow down the ghouls.

“You aren’t a member of the Brotherhood but while you work with us, I will be treating you as an Initiate,” Danse said as she cleaned and modified the other 10mm. “That means no chems unless truly necessary and never more than once in a fight. You follow my orders, treat Rhys and Haylen with respect, and be honest and honourable.”

“Yes, Paladin,” Sparrow responded. Had Nate shown that gruff authority as a soldier?

Once Haylen was awake to take over the watch, they moved out, the trip to Arcjet Systems relatively uneventful but for the band of raiders who’d just ambushed and murdered a trader in front of them. Danse charged into the fray as Sparrow targeted the middle of the raiders’ bodies, doing her best to avoid hitting the Paladin and swallowing the sour bile that came up as people died. It was soon over, Danse spitting in disgust and then ordering Sparrow to put on the metal armour one wore and collect the arms and ammo.

Inside Arcjet, there were Protectrons scattered everywhere like broken toys, leading Danse to curse softly. “Institute Synths came through,” he said grimly.

“What are Institute Synths?” Sparrow asked cautiously.

“The sort of abomination created by scientists who failed to learn the lessons of the Great War,” Danse answered dourly. “The Institute, it’s said, are the descendants of scientists who went underground after the atom bombs fell.”

Sparrow’s grip tightened on her gun. “Do you think they might have taken Shaun?”

“I can’t say, honestly,” Danse told her, jaw set stubbornly. “Follow me. We need to get that deep range transmitter before the synths do.”

Plastic and metal mockeries of humanity attacked shortly after and they were forced to fight their way to the engine core. Sparrow’s knack for terminals allowed them to bypass a security door and restore power to the elevators – but when she looked up and saw Danse overwhelmed by synths, she blanched at the sheer amount of metal monsters.

_This was some kind of experimental rocket,_ she thought as she dashed for a console she recalled looking over the window. _Nate swore a T-60 suit could survive a engine blast – I hope he was right!_

She pressed the button and as the engines fired up, Danse hunkered down in a protective stance. Within moments, orange flame melted the synths to puddles of metal and plastic before dying away, leaving scorch marks in their wake.

Sparrow ran out into the engine core and hoped that she hadn’t killed the Paladin.

When he moved, the ablative coating of his power armour cracked and scorched by the flames, she gasped in relief. The Paladin pulled off his helmet and the hood of the protective suit he wore under it, revealing a messy shock of dark hair. “I’m alive,” he groaned. “Cooked, but alive.”

“I need you to remove the arms so I can administer a stimpak,” Sparrow told him crisply, falling back on the first aid classes she’d taken in college.

The Paladin regarded her with a raised eyebrow but obeyed, hissing a little in pain as she jabbed the needle in. “You were a medic before the war?” he asked.

“No, but I took some first aid classes – they were required by my college,” she replied, pressing the plunger and watching the reddened weals of first degree burns fade into tanned brown.

“College?” Danse spoke the word as if its taste was foreign to him.

“Yes. Once, we would do – oh, about twelve or so years of basic schooling and then choose our life path, which sometimes involved more education,” Sparrow told him. “My husband volunteered for the army instead of being conscripted. He was a corporal before being honourably discharged after the Battle of Anchorage.”

“And yourself?”

“I studied law.” Sparrow laughed a little despairingly. “We cracked jokes about Nate being the brawn and I the brains of the operation.”

She pulled out the needle and tucked it away for sterilisation and reuse. Danse attached the sleeve of his power armour with quick, deft movements but left his helmet off and hood down, carrying the former under his arm.

“We need that transmitter,” he said gruffly. “Also, collect as much of the synth technology as you can. Haylen and the other Scribes will need as much as they can to counter the Institute.”

Sparrow obeyed, every bone in her body aching. She wanted to sleep for a year – but she’d lost so much time. What if Danse was right and she awoke too late to save Shaun?

By the time they emerged from Arcjet Systems, it was the middle of the afternoon and the sky glowed an eerie green. “Radiation storm,” Danse said with a sigh. “We’ll need to wait it out inside.”

The rain that fell down glowed the same poisonous green as nuclear material but there was a strange beauty to it. Sarah watched it through the windows of the security trailer they sheltered in, her hands busy as she cleaned the guns they’d collected, the Institute lasers stuffed away for later study by Haylen. Danse was busy checking over his own laser, a weapon he had named Righteous Authority.

“That mission was sloppy,” he finally said. “We were caught by surprise more than once.”

Sparrow licked her scarred lips. “But we survived and got it down.”

“So we did,” Danse conceded. “You proved yourself, Sparrow. If you weren’t there, I would have been killed by the synths.”

He tossed Righteous Authority over to her. “You’ve earned this.”

Reflexes from another life allowed her to catch the weapon. “But don’t you need this?” she asked.

Danse smiled thinly. “The Brotherhood of Steel always keeps a backup weapon.”

“Then thank you.” She tucked it and the fusion cells she’d collected into the satchel made from scraps of a dead woman’s dress.

“There’s one other thing.” Danse’s hard mouth almost curved into a smile. “You obeyed orders, proved yourself useful and kept a cool head.”

“I… Thanks,” Sparrow answered, blushing at the praise, so unexpected after her underwhelming performance yesterday while strung out on chems.

“You’re welcome. I’d like to offer you the chance to join the Brotherhood of Steel.” When she looked up in surprise at the Paladin, he smiled subtly. “The Brotherhood looks after its own – and if I may be frank, with the Minutemen wiped out at Quincy and the Railroad dubious at best, we’re your best chance of finding out what happened to your son.”

“Do you think the Institute took my son?” she asked quietly.

“Haylen brought up the possibility and… it seems plausible,” Danse admitted with a twist of his mouth.

“Why do you want me to join the Brotherhood?”

“Because you’re intelligent, quick to learn and by dint of being kept on ice for two hundred years, you are a source of pre-War knowledge that isn’t a ghoul and therefore potentially a threat to humanity if your brains rot,” Danse answered bluntly. “You also helped without being asked to in Cambridge and well… That’s too rare in the Wasteland outside of the Brotherhood.”

Sparrow looked at the Paladin for a long moment, seeing the shadows of past wars in the haunted brown gaze and the scars that pocked his strong features. “My husband would have liked you, Danse,” she said quietly. “If he’d survived, he w-would have m-made a f-fine soldier in your o-order…”

She burst into tears, the first she’d shed since taking the wedding ring from Nate’s frozen corpse. “I-I should be dead-“

Muscular arms enfolded her and let her weep into a cloth-covered shoulder, a hand rubbing awkwardly down her back, trying to soothe her as the tears fell. For a moment she was back in 2075, the year she met Nate after he told her of her father’s death in Anchorage and let her cry on his shoulder.

But Danse wasn’t Nate. He smelt of sweat and metal instead of Old Spice, stubble rough and catching in her hair where her husband had been clean-shaven, silent where her husband would have made shushing noises to quiet her sobs.

“You survived for a reason,” the Paladin told her when the tears finally ceased. “Life is hard in the Wasteland. But the Brotherhood of Steel would stand at your back, ready to spill its own blood if necessary.”

Sparrow looked into those solemn brown eyes and found something resembling a smile in herself. This wasn’t the world she chose but it was the one she had now.

“Then I would be honoured to join, Paladin Danse.”

“Outstanding.” Danse looked out at the darkening forest-green sky. “We will overnight here, Initiate. This storm will clear out by dawn.”

“Yes, Paladin.” She extricated herself from his arms, feeling the slide of his callused fingers as he reluctantly let her go. “I’ll set up the sleeping bags.”

“Good.” Danse reached over for another gun and began to examine it as Sparrow unrolled the sleeping bags.

“Thank you,” she said after a long, comfortable silence, the kind she’d never had the chance to share with Nate.

“You’re welcome, Initiate.”

Beneath the glow of an irradiated sky, Sparrow listened to the gravel of Danse’s snoring and wondered if this world was so desolate after all.


	2. A Hope of Steel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sparrow Finlay has done the best she can for the Brotherhood recon team until their promised relief force arrives. Chasing answers to the fate of her son, she comes to the conclusion that the battle with the Institute isn't one she can win alone. Thankfully, she has Danse at her back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warnings for PTSD, death, violence, defilement of a corpse, mentions of drug addiction and fantastic racism. Some canon divergence involved in the Brotherhood of Steel storyline that revolves some cut dialogue I come across, but that will be explored later. Throwing in some head-canon to explain Cait’s accent.

Paladin Brandis was shell-shocked from the loss of his team and the long silence of the Brotherhood but, as he limped into the Cambridge Police Station leaning on the smaller Sparrow’s shoulder, the light in his eyes gave Danse hope for their future in the Commonwealth. Rhys had recovered from his injuries and Haylen was almost finished with jury-rigging the long range transmitter to the Capital Wasteland and the Elders. After the events at Arcjet Systems, it was clear the Institute were working to some sinister agenda, which meant that intervention was necessary. The only ones capable of matching the rogue scientists were the Brotherhood of Steel, which meant that Danse and his team would have their hands full until a strike force was assembled.

That team included Sparrow and even Rhys was reluctantly respecting her contributions to Gladius. The Initiate obeyed orders without complaint and reported in every two days, bringing food and supplies for Haylen and Danse to scavenge. Rhys, born to the Brotherhood and the son of Paladins, had few survival skills outside the Brotherhood – though he was an exemplary soldier nevertheless. Now that Brandis, despite his shellshock, had joined them – they were almost up to full complement again.

Danse noted approvingly that Sparrow wore the orange and beige uniform of a Brotherhood Initiate with combat armour on her torso – scavenged from one of the dead recon teams, no doubt, but it showed her dedication to the order. She used a Institute pistol picked up from one of the synths at Arcjet Systems as her primary weapon, Righteous Authority having too much of a kick for the thin Vault Dweller until she learned to brace herself properly. It was frustrating that with the chaos in the Commonwealth, Danse didn’t have the time to teach her properly, fitting in her combat lessons between the peregrinations Haylen and Rhys sent the most mobile member of Gladius on. Every time she was sent out to clear out a nearby location of ghouls and super mutants or scavenge some pre-War tech for Haylen, the Paladin feared that she wouldn’t return – or would try to find her son on her own and fall into an Institute trap.

Once Brandis was sitting on a sleeping bag and Haylen checking him over, Sparrow upended the satchel she carried to reveal her scavenged treasures – food, purified water, ammo and the other necessities of life in the Wasteland. No chems beyond some Rad-X, Danse noted with a raised eyebrow.

“I met a trader on the road between Malden and Paladin Brandis’ post,” the Initiate explained, hooking her hands into her belt to conceal the trembling. “Traded the chems I found for ammunition and some food.”

“Removing temptation, Initiate?” Danse asked softly. In between leaving the Vault and coming upon the Brotherhood, Sparrow had been using Jet to avoid sleeping because she’d developed a genuine phobia of unconsciousness. He suspected that while she was trying to avoid the chems now – as per the Litany – she also only slept in the Cambridge Police Station when she was around other people. The Vault Dweller would burn herself out with such behaviour and Danse was helpless to stop it.

“Yes,” she admitted starkly. Haylen, as the medic, knew that Sparrow was still purging the poisons of her chem binge from her body – without the use of Addictol or the services of a proper doctor, the process would take a month or more, and be set back if more chems were used. The Brotherhood saved Addictol for the direst cases of addiction, those that came around from genuine short-term necessity like surviving a firefight, and if Danse had some to hand, he would certainly use it on Sparrow. Unfortunately, there was none to be had and the caps stash they’d managed to build up had to be saved for more urgent necessities.

Rhys had been contemptuous of Sparrow’s binge but only voiced his concerns to Danse when the Initiate was gone. He bled the Brotherhood and believed in purging all weaknesses, even his own.

Brandis was now asleep, Haylen putting the old Paladin under a light sedative and joining Sparrow in going through the scavenged items. When she saw a big, leather-shelled egg in the ‘I think it’s edible’ pile (as opposed to the ‘definitely edible’ pile), the Scribe grinned.

“Radscorpion omelette, anyone?” she asked of the recon team.

Sparrow, who ate food mechanically, shrugged while Rhys and Danse nodded. It would take a full omelette to purge the chem poisons from the Initiate’s body or help heal Brandis, but splitting it between the four of them would grant Gladius a much-needed boost to their energy. The pre-War supplies that were still edible two hundred or so years later were filling, but they had to be paired with rad-resistant foods or else everyone would sicken. The Initiate, as a Vault Dweller, was the most vulnerable to rads and so before she went out, Haylen supplied her with some RadAway that was brewed from the plants and other supplies brought in.

As the leader of a recon team, Danse had to balance the input and output of the individual team members. It would take at least a week for Brandis to recover physically and no doubt months for him to be fit for full duties – but he could handle a pistol and help Rhys defend the compound, freeing Danse up to leave if necessary.

Haylen was a competent cook and the fresh omelette made a pleasant change from mac and cheese, Instamash and baked tatos. The lines of pain around Sparrow and Brandis’ eyes eased a bit and the Paladin was soon sleeping again, curled up in his sleeping bag like a baby.

Danse sat by Sparrow as Rhys took the bowls to be cleaned. The Initiate was already dismantling a typewriter into scrap for supplies – when the Brotherhood arrived, they would be impressed at the amount of tech and scrap scavenged by his team.

“Once Haylen fires off the message to the Elders, Gladius will dig in and fortify this compound to use as a ground base,” he told her, sorting the typewriter parts into useful and non-useful piles.

“What does that mean for me?” Sparrow asked as she unscrewed something.

“It means that all scavenging and cleansing missions will cease. We’ve cleaned out Cambridge in more ways than one but for the area near the C.I.T. Ruins,” he explained. “It means that you should be able to spare a day or two to cross over the bridge and chase leads on your son and the Institute. I’ve heard over the radio that there’s a reporter there – Piper – who’s looking into the bastards herself.”

“What can I expect in Diamond City?” she asked.

“Corruption, ingenuity and all the virtues of the Wasteland in between,” Danse observed wryly. “I hear Mayor McDonough denies the existence of the Institute while Piper outright called him a synth.”

Sparrow’s mouth pursed. Her lips were neither full nor thin, chapped and reddish-pink against her tanned skin, but her teeth were the whitest Danse had ever seen. The burnt orange of her uniform lent warmth to her skin and a hint of copper to the chestnut hair she kept coiled at the nape of her neck.

“I found this,” Danse suddenly said, reaching for the box where items too useful to scrap but not immediately use were kept. Inside was a silver-backed hairbrush, found in some pre-War woman’s dressing table, and he offered it to Sparrow.

Given that until the last scavenging run she’d shared a near-toothless plastic comb with Haylen when she didn’t just settle for finger-combing her hair, he thought that she’d be glad of it. Haylen had chosen a bright pink hairbrush with black bristles that made short work of her tangled ginger ponytail, though Rhys gagged at the colour combination.

“Thank you,” Sparrow said with such gratitude in her voice that it made Danse flush. Was the world so desolate for the Vault Dweller that every bit of kindness – even when it was between two Brotherhood members who owed each other their lives – was significant?

The Initiate rose to her feet and entered the bathroom to clean herself with the boiled water that Gladius kept to hand. Danse watched her leave, eyes following the swing of her hips before he reminded himself that she was newly widowed _and_ under his command, a double betrayal of trust.

But she would look lovely, even under the Wasteland grime, with her hair properly brushed and clean.

…

When Sparrow headed out the next morning, she wore road leathers that had been brushed free of dirt the night before and the leather armour that was becoming far too comfortable. Violence was the way of the Wasteland, it seemed, and the Institute pistol in her hand the only thing that kept her alive.

She wished Danse could have come with her. The Paladin’s gruff solid presence was a reassurance that she wasn’t alone, that there was someone at her back, but it would be a week before Brandis could even face light duties and be trusted to help Rhys guard the compound. Sparrow resigned herself to another sleepless couple days and hefted her pack – full of pipe pistols, some spare armour that was worth more selling than scrapping and a few scavenged dresses and suits which survived the Great War – before striding for the bridge that would lead her to Diamond City.

Turned out that Diamond City was the old baseball stadium and Boston proper riddled with super mutants, ghouls and raiders. The city guards, decked out in old baseball uniforms with padding and helmets, were holding off an attack by super mutants laired up in an abandoned building. It had become second nature for Sparrow to charge in firing, though she showed some more tactics thanks to Danse’s endless patience with her lack of combat experience.

“Not afraid of super mutants? You’re our kinda gal,” noted the chief of the guards approvingly once the super mutants were dead, two of his number joining Sparrow in the looting that was now instinctive.

“Damn things are a blight on humanity,” Sparrow said tightly, remembering Danse’s stories of the Capital Wasteland and the fate of his friend Knight Cutler.

“That they are, that they are,” the guard agreed. “Headin’ to Diamond City?”

“Yes,” she confirmed. “Got weapons, armour, dresses and suits to trade.”

“The folk in the upper stands will welcome the clothing,” the guard said dryly. “Sell them to Fallon’s Basement. Old Becky will pay you a fair price and if you become her exclusive supplier, there’ll be more caps in it for you.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Sparrow told him. Danse, who’d once run a junking business in somewhere called Rivet City, told her that the key to successful trading in the Wasteland was a willingness to compromise paired with a refusal to take any bullshit.

“Arturo is the best place to sell raw steel, weapons, armour and ammo, while Myrna will take just about everything else,” the guard continued. “The Dugout Inn is a good place to stay – decent food, booze and the Bobrov Brothers don’t take shit from anyone.”

Sparrow found herself smiling at the man. “Thank _you_ ,” she said. “I’m from up north and… well… came south after a… family tragedy.”

The guard nodded. “Good luck. Most traders would have run past and left us to the super mutants, ungrateful sods they are. Tell Sullivan at the gate that Banyon sent you and he’ll let you in.”

Sparrow nodded at the guard and followed the signs to Diamond City. It was good to know that humanity was rebuilding after the Great War; once she found Shaun and the Institute dealt with, maybe they could make a good life here.

At the gate, a dark-haired woman in a red leather coat was arguing with Sullivan over the intercom. “Let me in, dammit!” she ordered. “I live here!”

“Mayor’s orders, Piper, I’m sorry,” the hapless Sullivan replied. “He’s really steamed about that article you wrote.”

“Oooh, here comes the big scary reporter!” Piper said mockingly. “I’m standing out in the open!”

“I’m sorry, Piper.” The intercom shut down and Piper muttered something uncomplimentary involving Mayor McDonough’s likely ancestry, which was apparently rich in synth and ghoul diversity.

Sparrow grinned at the reporter. “I thought you knew all politicians were synths,” she told her.

“Hah.” Piper shook her head in disgust. “He’s up to something. First he throws all the ghouls out of Diamond City and now he’s trying to shut down the press.”

She turned around and looked at Sparrow penetratingly. “Pipboy, fish outta water look… What brings a Vault Dweller to the ‘great, green jewel of the Commonwealth’?”

“I’m looking for my son Shaun,” Sparrow said, throat closing up at the thought of her son dead or gone. “He’s a baby.”

“And you’re hoping that you can find answers in Diamond City?” Piper sounded sympathetic.

“I hope so.” Sparrow folded her arms and studied the reporter. “How do we get in?”

“Leave that to me.” Piper leaned over and pressed the intercom. “What was that? Banyon sent you and you have goods to trade?”

“I’m from Sanctuary Hills in the north and I have some luxury garments,” Sparrow confirmed, playing along with the reporter.

“So, Danny, you gonna let her in or explain to Becky Fallon why there’s a pile of suits and dresses left out on the ground when they could be making caps for her?” Piper asked into the intercom.

“Sheesh, fine, I’ll open up.” The great door of the stadium lifted to reveal an irate man in a dusty grey suit, complete with yellow silk flower tucked into the pocket.

“You devious, rabble-rousing slanderer!” spat the older man, who had to be Mayor McDonough. “Who let you in-?”

“Mayor McDonough?” Sparrow asked, interrupting the man’s tirade and palming the bottle of wine she’d found on the way here.

“Yes,” the man said, turning to her. “Who-?”

“My name is Sparrow and I’m a trader from up north,” she said. “My son was kidnapped and I’m hoping that the mayor of a great city could give me some ideas on where to start.”

McDonough reminded her of every petty politician and Army bureaucrat her family had dealt with before the bombs fell, and the tricks which worked on them made the Mayor’s chest puff up in a vain show of masculine pride. “I’m sorry,” he apologised. “I didn’t see you there. You look like Diamond City material.”

“Thanks,” Sparrow said.

“As for your son, Nick Valentine’s the man – or synth, I should say – to see,” McDonough continued. “If he can’t find him, then no one can.”

“Thank you, Mayor McDonough,” Sparrow said softly as he turned away to berate Piper once more.

“You and your little sister are on notice!” he spat before heading upstairs into the stadium proper.

“Keep talking, that’s all you’re good for!” Piper hurled at his back before turning to face Sparrow.

“I’m impressed. Not everyone can pry information out of McDonough’s tight grip.” The reporter grinned. “Think I found my next story. Come by my office once you’ve seen Nick.”

Sparrow looked up and saw that night was coming. She didn’t want to be out in the darkness, not without one of the Brotherhood – even Rhys – by her side. “I can give you the story now,” she told the reporter. “Careful, it will take all night.”

“Sleep is for the weak,” Piper laughed as they entered Diamond City.

…

The Initiate didn’t return for nearly a week and Danse was quietly starting to panic. Sparrow was under his command and he knew the woman wouldn’t disobey orders without a damn good reason – had she been killed by raiders or captured by the Institute for asking questions? He should have gone with her-

“Sparrow’s back,” Haylen announced as she peered through the window. “And looks like she brought someone with her.”

The Paladin scowled. He hoped that Sparrow understood the Brotherhood’s need for discretion until the force that the Elders promised arrived.

He strode into the courtyard where Brandis had stopped the Initiate and her companion, a freckled redhead with the lilting accent of the insular Erin community from the Capital Wasteland and the scarred hands of a brawler. “Well, well, well,” the woman drawled, looking Danse up and down blatantly.

“Focus, Cait,” Sparrow said with a sigh.

“Can’t, out of Jet,” the brawler replied cheerfully.

“Haylen, give the Initiate’s… friend… something to eat,” he told the Scribe who’d followed him outside. “Initiate, I want your report now.”

“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Cait asked as he led Sparrow down to the cellar.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” the Vault Dweller told him once the door was shut.

“Who the hell is that?” he demanded. If Sparrow had hit the chems again-

“Cait, a cage fighter I wound up stuck with after I killed the raiders who were betting on her,” the Initiate answered flatly. “Her ‘manager’ Tommy cut her loose because there was no need of her and he couldn’t be arsed to take the time to get the help she needed.”

“Have you touched any chems?” Danse asked bluntly.

“No, and I used the caps I earned from rescuing Nick Valentine, a synth detective with the personality of someone I actually knew back in the 2070s, to get a doctor to cure me of the poisons,” she shot back, tone sounding hurt. “You can get Haylen to check me out.”

“I will,” he confirmed. “You were meant to be gone for two days, three at most, Initiate. What happened?”

Sparrow raised her scarred chin, brown eyes flashing. “I tracked the bastard who took my baby to Fort Hagen,” she announced. “Unfortunately, it’s heavily fortified and likely crawling with synths.”

When he went to point out she should have come to him first, the Initiate held up her hand. “I had to follow a mutt named Dogmeat,” she explained. “Nick, Cait and I walked halfway across the Commonwealth to find this ‘Kellogg’ and then back because I knew that even with three of us, there wasn’t enough firepower to take the fortress on.”

Danse sighed. “I’m not happy, Initiate. Working with a synth who might be an Institute plant-?”

“Nick had his memories of the place scrubbed, but he confirmed that the Institute likely took my son,” Sparrow answered softly. “And the Nick Valentine I recall was one of the finest men I ever knew – and despite looking like something from a bad sci-fi movie, the one who offered to help find my baby is the same man, just with circuits.”

“I’m still not happy,” Danse observed, “But I’ll reserve judgment until I meet this synth for myself.”

“Understood,” Sparrow agreed. “What about Cait?”

“She’s too chem-riddled to be trusted,” Danse told Sparrow bluntly. “If you were looking to help her by having her join the Brotherhood, it won’t happen. She’s too random and dangerous.”

The Vault Dweller’s jaw set stubbornly but she nodded. “I’ll send her to Hangman’s Alley,” she told the Paladin. “Wound up clearing out some raiders there with Cait and found a couple folk willing to settle down there with its proximity to Diamond City.”

“Repopulating the Wasteland?” Danse asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Making friends and allies for the Brotherhood,” Sparrow countered. “With the death of the Minutemen at Quincy, there’s no one protecting the settlements. I highly doubt that the Elders will come along, destroy the Institute and return to the Capital Wasteland to leave the Commonwealth in a state of anarchy.”

Danse stared at her. Even the Paladins left such long-term thinking to the Elders, who were chosen from the best and brightest of their order, a mixture of the traditional families – like Arthur Maxson and the late Lyons – and those who’d risen through the ranks.

“We tend to keep to ourselves unless dangerous technology is involved,” he finally said.

“Maybe so, but even if you just come to destroy the Institute, the support of the Commonwealth will be needed,” Sparrow pointed out. “Food, medicine, supplies…”

“I _get_ it, soldier,” Danse informed her testily. “So what are you going to do now?”

Sparrow smiled grimly at him. “I was hoping you could come with me to Fort Hagen. I need someone who can handle heavy weapons as Cait and Nick, who’s watching the place, can’t.”

Danse looked at her steadily. “You’re certain that Kellogg is working for the Institute?”

“In the old days, the circumstantial evidence I have would be enough to send that bastard to the chair,” Sparrow answered flatly.

“The chair?”

“The electric chair,” she clarified. “We electrocuted criminals to death.”

“Bullet to the head is cleaner,” he observed.

“When we began to run out of resources, we turned to bullets,” the Initiate agreed. “It was… not a good time to live in.”

Danse recalled her tales of soldiers in power armour gunning down protestors as two world powers squabbled over the last few oilfields on earth, the stunning victory in Anchorage that led to China unleashing their nuclear arsenal and the United States following suit, and the wind from the mushroom cloud as she and a select few were lowered into a Vault to be secretly frozen.

“I don’t know all of the Brotherhood’s history, but I do know that our order was born from the military of that time,” he finally said. “Humanity’s arrogance and technological grasp exceeded their wisdom and morality.”

“I noticed,” Sparrow said with an ironic twist of her lips.

“I guess you did,” Danse conceded sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “As to your request, let me check with Haylen and Rhys. Brandis is up and about, but he’s still fragile.”

“Understood,” Sparrow said as she turned for the door upstairs. “If you can’t leave the compound, I’ll head back to Diamond City and grab Piper to join me, Cait and Nick.”

When Danse entered the main police station, he saw Cait flirting outrageously with a scowling Rhys while Haylen chivvied Sparrow over for a quick check up. When the Scribe nodded at him, the Paladin knew she’d been telling the truth about the chems.

“Brandis!” he called out to his fellow Paladin. The older man, hair now neatly cut and beard trimmed, looked up from the gun he was cleaning. “Do you think you could hold the line until the Brotherhood arrives?”

“Barring an all-out offensive, I believe so,” the man said with a sigh. “We’ve improved the defences and Haylen says she can make a couple turrets from the scrap Initiate Sparrow brought in.”

“Rhys, Haylen?” Danse asked of the other two Brotherhood members.

The Knight pursed his lips and then nodded reluctantly. “I don’t like it, but if what Cait’s told me is true, it’s going to take a Paladin in full armour to storm the place.”

“We can,” Haylen said confidently. “The Elders said that the force would arrive within the week.”

Danse sighed in relief. He didn’t like the idea of Sparrow entering Fort Hagen to confront a ruthless Institute agent with a synth, a chem-addled brawler and a reporter at her back. “Good. Initiate Sparrow, tell them everything you know in case we fail at Fort Hagen.”

The Vault Dweller delivered a short report on Kellogg and his ties to the Institute. Haylen, who’d taken apart several Institute weapons, was already nodding and recording the information.

When she was done, Brandis stood up. “You need to go,” he told Danse. “I’m not up to it and while I’m sure the lovely Cait is a devil in combat, they need a Paladin to breach the defences.”

Sparrow pegged the brawler with a firm look. “This is now a military operation,” she told Cait grimly. “Paladin Danse will be commanding me and anyone else who comes along. If you choose to join us that will include you.”

“You own my contract now,” Cait told the smaller woman. “I go where you tell me to.”

“No, you go where you choose,” Sparrow answered softly. “I should give warning that Danse doesn’t allow anything stronger than Rad-X or Stimpaks on a mission.”

“Fuck that,” Cait said bluntly. “Can I stay here then?”

Danse shook his head. It was obvious that Sparrow was trying to help the woman, even if he thought the brawler was a lost cause. “You’re not of the Brotherhood.”

Cait scowled. “Tight-arsed bastard,” she declared.

“This is a military compound, not a ten-cap inn,” Danse retorted. “Somehow I suspect you and military discipline would get along poorly.”

“You’re not fucking wrong,” Cait countered before turning to Sparrow. “So what now? You gonna throw me out now you’ve got your boyfriend to help out?”

“He’s my commanding officer, not my boyfriend,” Sparrow told the woman tightly. “And I’m not throwing you out, Cait. There’s a bed for you at Hangman’s Alley if you want it.”

“Want me digging up tatos then?” Cait asked scornfully.

“Actually, I was thinking that your reputation as a cage fighter would make the raiders steer clear of the place,” Sparrow observed calmly.

“Ah, security,” Cait said thoughtfully. “Why didn’t you just say so in the beginning?”

“Because I wasn’t sure if Paladin Danse could join me, which meant I would have needed someone capable of ripping a synth apart with her bare hands,” Sparrow pointed out.

“Understood.” Cait grabbed a handful of shotgun shells and rested her sawn-off shotgun on her shoulder as she turned for the door. “Good luck with those synth bastards. Watch your back with Nick ‘cause he’s one of them.”

“Thanks. Safe journey back to the Alley.” When the door closed behind, Sparrow sighed in relief.

“I see you’ve acquired some… interesting… allies,” Brandis noted dryly.

“If I hadn’t run into the Brotherhood, I would have been her in a few weeks,” Sparrow said bluntly.

“Perhaps, Initiate, perhaps not,” Danse said. “Now get some sleep. We leave for Fort Hagen tomorrow.”

She nodded, obviously relieved to hand over command to someone else, and went to her assigned sleeping bag. Danse would need to remind her to wash up before they left tomorrow but with the red in her eyes, it was obvious she was exhausted.

He sighed and turned towards his power armour. Time to make sure it was battle-ready.

…

_“When I die, I hope I go to hell so I can kill you all over again, you bastard.”_

Sparrow ripped the last of the circuitry from Kellogg’s dead body after she’d smashed his head in. The man had been a certified cyborg, more machine than man, and proud of his actions in giving Shaun to the Institute. Now he was a rotting carcass amidst the strewn remnants of the thirty synths she, Danse and Nick had dispatched on their way down here… and she was no closer to finding Shaun.

“Finished, soldier?” Danse asked gruffly as Nick hacked the terminal to find any more information on the Institute. The two men had developed a curt rapport with each other though she doubted they’d be friends.

Sparrow wiped her tears away with a bloody hand. “I’m sorry, Paladin,” she told him. During the whole fight he’d been the backbone of their force, laying waste to synths with his mini-gun and taking fire so that she and Nick could deal with the rest of their enemies.

“We have more questions than answers, but I know someone who might be able to help us,” Nick announced as the doors opened. “Do you know where Goodneighbour is?”

“If you think ghouls will be of any use,” Danse began, only to be silenced by Nick’s withering yellow gaze.

“Yes, it’s full of sentient ghouls. But Dr Amari is human and very competent,” Nick replied acerbically, standing up from the terminal.

As per protocol, Sparrow looted every bit of portable technology from the place. Since she’d joined up, the Cambridge station had become stocked full of scavenged food, resources and tech. She didn’t know the size of the force coming to the Commonwealth but suspected that every little bit would be needed – hence her supporting the settlers at Hangman’s Alley. Logistics, as much as tactics, won wars.

Danse led them to the elevator, which groaned under the weight of his power armour but heroically carried them to the roof. “How are you coping?” he asked softly as Nick went to open the security door.

“I don’t know,” Sparrow said honestly. “I thought this was an end, but it’s just the beginning…”

“We have proof that the Institute is actively working in the Commonwealth,” the Paladin noted.

“And they have my son for some reason,” Sparrow noted bitterly.

“Yes.” Danse sighed and rested a hand on her shoulder. “If we can’t save Shaun, the Brotherhood will avenge him and your husband too.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I guess it’s back to Cambridge?”

“For me, yes. We need whatever can be extracted from Kellogg’s circuitry and that means you go to this… Goodneighbour.” Danse scowled as he mentioned the township’s name. “Be careful there, Initiate. It’s not just full of ghouls, it’s also full of scum that even Diamond City wouldn’t have.”

“I’ll go with Nick,” she sighed.

“I suppose he’s a little more trustworthy than a ghoul,” Danse said dourly.

“You’re _too_ kind,” the synth private eye observed sarcastically over his shoulder. The door opened to reveal a night sky studded with stars. “Finally, some fresh air.”

Then the sound of vertibirds filled the air as a massive airship, escorted by dozens of the military aircraft, sailed majestically into view.

Sparrow pressed her hand to her mouth in shock as Nick quoted something that sounded like poetry and Danse actually grinned.

“People of the Commonwealth. Do not interfere. Our intentions are peaceful. We are the Brotherhood of Steel.”

The announcement rolled across the Commonwealth like the portent of a storm, the airship’s engines rumbling thunderously as it headed in the direction of the airport, the only place likely big enough for it to dock.

In silence they watched it pass, Sparrow unable to find the words to express her amazement that a military force of that size still existed. Had the Brotherhood brought all their people to the Commonwealth to fight the Institute or was this but a portion, albeit a sizeable one?

When she looked at Danse, the strain of the past few weeks had melted away to be replaced by hope in his brown eyes.

“If the Prydwen is here, then it means Elder Maxson himself has come,” the Paladin said with a tight grin. “We’d better head to the Cambridge station because he’ll be wanting a personal report from me as leader of the recon team.”

“What about the circuitry we extracted from Kellogg?” Nick asked.

“Initiate, I’m sorry to ask you to wait, but I will need you to join me on the Prydwen,” Danse said, addressing Sparrow directly. “The Elder will require a full report before we consult this Dr Amari and you’re the one who discovered the evidence of Institute involvement.”

She wanted to tell him to piss off for once but he was right. If the Brotherhood was to war with the Institute, they needed all the information they could get. Her mother had been in military intelligence. She understood how it worked.

“Nick, I’ll meet you in Diamond City as soon as I can,” she promised, turning to the detective. She liked him, remembering her father’s friend Nick, and hoped that she could convince the Brotherhood he was on the side of the angels.

“I’ll see you soon,” Nick said, tipping his hat politely before heading for the ramp that would lead downwards.

Danse looked to the Prydwen as it flew over the ruins of Boston. “It will be good to see Maxson again. I’ve known him for four years – since he became Elder – and he is the true force behind the Brotherhood.”

“He’s a friend of yours?” Sparrow asked, still awed by the airship.

“If one can call a living legend a friend, then yes,” Danse answered as he walked to the edge of the building, the ramp not being strong enough to hold his power armour, and simply dropping to the ground with a massive thud. Sparrow, not burdened with a quarter-ton of steel, took the ramp and soon joined him.

“Here’s to hoping I don’t disappoint you when I meet him,” she said as they started the long walk to Cambridge. For the first time since she emerged from the Vault, she had hope, and it was something she prayed never to lose again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sparrow Finlay and Paladin Danse go on their first official mission for the Brotherhood under Elder Maxson's command. The mission goes alright, but it's the lunch after where things get awkward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. The muse is on a roll with this story! Trigger warning for mentions of death, drug use/addiction, violence, grief/mourning and fantastic racism. May I just say that I <3 Paladin Danse? Moar canon divergence, of course.

“Man the mini-gun,” Danse commanded as he and Sparrow climbed onto the vertibird. “Spread your legs a bit so you’re properly balanced and hold it with both hands.”

As soon as the words left his lips he realised the possible innuendo and blushed, but Sparrow took it in the most innocent way possible and obeyed. The wind from the vertibird’s rotating blades flattened an already snug-fitting suit against the Initiate’s slender form – her combat chest piece concealed the curve of her breasts but the roundness of her hips and backside were still visible. Danse recalled that her son Shaun had been three months old when she went into the Vault and so her body still showed the softness that followed a pregnancy despite the gauntness of her face.

_She’s a widow and your subordinate,_ he reminded himself. Mourning was hard and fast as a summer radstorm in the Wasteland but to Sparrow, it had been two or so weeks since her world ended and her husband was murdered. He knew she still grieved for Nate, who had served under her father at the Battle of Anchorage and sounded like the sort of soldier who’d have reached Paladin in record time. If she’d taken the baby instead of him, Danse would be sitting behind a tall, clean-shaven man with short black hair and hazel eyes, watching him mow down raiders and super mutants with the calm ease of an experienced soldier. The twist of fate might have been better for the Brotherhood – but not for Danse. From what Sparrow said, her husband would have questioned orders and on the battlefield, that would be catastrophic.

The Initiate’s boots slid against the metal deck of the vertibird as the aircraft turned towards the Prydwen and Danse swore, immediately turning the magnetic soles of his power armour on and grabbing her. The barrel of the mini-gun glowed cherry-red as it slowed down, Sparrow having lost control of the gun while turning it.

“Is everything alright back there, Paladin?” the pilot asked over the intercom.

“It’s fine,” he called back. “Your turn was just a bit sharp for the Initiate; she’s never been on a vertibird before and I wanted to see how she handled the mini-gun.”

“Very well. Given that I didn’t hear a thud, I assume you caught her?”

“I did,” Danse confirmed as Sparrow slowly released her death grip on him. She was panting, sweat beading her forehead and a greenish cast visible beneath her tan.

“Good.” The vertibird turned around once more and the Initiate moaned.

“I have you,” Danse promised her. “I won’t let you fall.”

The gratitude in her eyes twisted his heart. Poor Sparrow threw herself into everything, trying to do what he commanded, but Danse was forced to concede that she really wasn’t Paladin material. With her talent for negotiation and investigation with a strong knowledge of logistics, it would be the Scribes for her, which would be safer for her – but remove much of the leeway a Knight or Paladin received. Given her knowledge of pre-War technology, it was a strong bet she’d be assigned to Ingram and her search for Shaun put on the backburner despite the real advances she’d made in tracking the Institute.

_A pity becoming Elder requires combat experience unless you’re from one of the old Lost Hills families,_ Danse sighed inwardly. Though physically weak, Sparrow had the intelligence and charisma to match any of the Elders that he’d met – up to and including Arthur Maxson, which was truly impressive. And some of the points she’d made, especially about the chaos in the Commonwealth, were truly relevant, albeit a bit close to the Lyons’ view of things for the conservatives back in Lost Hills to consider.

_I wonder if I could make a case for a recon team to track incidents involving the Institute,_ he mused as the Prydwen came into view. _Haylen and Rhys can hold down the Police Station with those reinforcements the Elder sent; the airport is secure; and we have a clear trail to some of the Institute’s secrets._

“Brace yourself,” he murmured into Sparrow’s hair, unlocking the magnetic soles in his boots, as the vertibird landed.

The Initiate took some deep breaths and extricated herself from his arms, much as she had when he let her cry into his shoulder just after she’d joined Gladius, before stepping off with a composure that would do a Lancer proud.

Lancer-Captain Kells awaited them on the flight deck, unconcerned by the inherent fragility of forty thousand tonnes of hydrogen-powered airship above a Commonwealth riddled with Fat Men and Missile Launchers. “Paladin Danse,” the man who really ran the Prydwen greeted with a salute. “Elder Maxson’s addressing the senior ground staff on the command deck and will want your report.”

“Of course, Lancer-Captain,” Danse answered, returning the salute.

Kells turned his hard gaze to Sparrow. “Initiate, I’m given to understand you were recruited by the Paladin?”

“Yes, sir,” she responded, saluting him.

“He’s normally a good judge of character. But understand that on this ship, you jump when I say so unless Elder Maxson says otherwise.”

“Understood,” Sparrow said quietly.

“Good. You better join Danse – the Elder’s definitely interested in meeting you.” And then a flicker of kindness shone through his dour demeanour. “Welcome to the Prydwen, Initiate Finlay.”

“Thank you, Lancer-Captain,” Sparrow said, saluting him.

Danse nodded to the Knight-Captain. “I don’t suppose you saved me a steak, Kells?”

“Talk to Proctor Teagan,” Kells advised dryly.

“Can I have a tooth pulled out instead?”

“Then talk to Knight Captain Cade.”

Sparrow, who’d gone ahead to the prow of the Prydwen, looked over her shoulder and Danse clasped Kells’ forearm. “I’ll catch up with you after the briefing. Remember, you owe me a steak.”

Kells laughed and returned the forearm clasp before striding towards the command deck himself.

“I’d taken out some Salisbury Steak to defrost the day the bombs fell,” Sparrow murmured when he joined her. “I wonder if it’s still there.”

“I’m pretty sure a recon team will want to check out Vault 111,” Danse assured her as he opened the door to the command deck, Kells having let it shut as he went through.

Sparrow’s lips pursed. “I should go with them. Nate and the others Vault-Tec left to die deserve to be given a proper burial.”

“Hopefully that can be arranged.” Danse let her go through before following her.

Arthur Maxson, hard-faced and broad-shouldered, was standing before the great windows of the command deck with his arms folded behind his back. Danse had been his instructor in the use of the min-gun – though he preferred the gatling laser gun – and still dared to think of him as a friend. A quick flick of the eyes and a curt nod acknowledged the duo before Maxson delivered the briefing that laid out their mission and fired the senior ground staff up.

Once the crew had delivered their final “Ad Victoriam” and filed out, Maxson dropped the stern demeanour and cracked a brief grin at Danse. “I knew the Commonwealth wouldn’t kill you,” the Elder, youngest man who ever become one though he’d certainly earned it, rasped.

“I’m glad to have proved you right,” Danse said with a tight grin that was quickly stifled. He had to maintain some sense of decorum for Sparrow’s sake.

“As am I,” Maxson said with audible relief. “As am I.”

The Elder turned to Sparrow with a flare of his battlecoat. She greeted him with the fist to chest salute and an “Ad Victoriam” that made Danse smile inwardly. Sparrow was lousy with a heavy gun but she had the protocol spot on.

“Ad Victoriam, Initiate,” he greeted. “At ease.”

The Vault Dweller relaxed subtly as Maxson sighed, looking out over the ruins of Boston. “I care about them, you know,” he mused. “The people of the Commonwealth, that is.”

“I noticed,” Sparrow observed. “Things are… rough down there and the Institute is only making it worse.”

The Elder nodded in agreement. “Indeed. I’m given to understand that your son was kidnapped by the Institute.”

“And raised by them, according to that bastard Kellogg,” Sparrow confirmed bitterly.

Maxson’s eyes were surprisingly compassionate. “Initiate, there’s a very strong chance that your son is either dead or indoctrinated beyond salvation.”

Sparrow’s lips trembled and Danse recalled something Nick had said. “There’s the strong possibility that he’s about ten or so now, Elder,” he told Arthur. “Young enough to become a Squire, if there’s hope for him.”

The scar-faced soldier nodded. “I hope so. But I must assume the worst and plan for it.”

Sparrow took a deep, shaky breath. “I understand, Elder.”

Maxson nodded. “If we can’t save him, then we’ll avenge him and your husband. Within two weeks, you’ve found more information on the Institute than we had in a decade.”

Danse cleared his throat. “Then with your permission, Elder, that should be our primary focus. If you hadn’t arrived, we would already be pursuing a particular lead – Kellogg was more machine than man, and he had some memory implants we might be able to access.”

“There’s somewhere called the Memory Den in Goodneighbour,” Sparrow added. “A doctor named Amari can apparently access them.”

Maxson’s eyebrow rose. “A haven of ghouls?”

“And our source was a synth,” Danse admitted sourly.

“With the personality of an old family friend,” Sparrow said defensively. “Nick Valentine was one of the finest police officers I knew and just because this one has circuits doesn’t mean he isn’t less trustworthy.”

“He… does appear to despise the Institute,” Danse said grudgingly. “And works as a private detective in Diamond City, helping others.”

“I can’t say as I’m happy about this,” Arthur finally said. “Artificial intelligence is exceptionally dangerous in anyone’s hands.”

“And the Institute’s habit of sending in synth infiltrators makes it worse,” Sparrow said grimly. “I didn’t get the opportunity to add this to my report, but I came across one trying to kill the man he was sent to replace near Hangman’s Alley. Cait and I dragged the carcass to the settlement and hopefully, it’s still intact.”

“I’ll reserve judgment on this Nick Valentine,” Maxson reluctantly conceded. “Robots can be programmed with helpful personalities, after all. But I want that synth corpse – or what’s left – up here as soon as possible.”

“I’ll get Haylen to handle it,” Danse promised. “We’ve got a wide variety of synth parts and Institute weapons taken from the ones who tried to kill us at Arcjet Systems.”

“Excellent.” Maxson placed his arms behind his back. “Continue sponsoring settlements, Initiate Finlay. We need a variety of supplies ranging from fresh food and water to scrap parts. In return, vertibirds will make regular patrol sweeps over the settlements and we will offer protection.”

Danse regarded her with a raised eyebrow. “I didn’t know you sent a report of your own,” he said to Sparrow carefully.

“With all respect, Paladin, you’re a soldier who thinks in military terms,” she replied. “Haylen and I have a different mindset – she’s technology and I’m logistics – so we each added our own reports to complement what you sent. I honestly thought you knew about it.”

“I… understand.” Danse looked down at her, somewhat hurt but unable to argue with her logic. “Next time, please let me know.”

“Of course, Paladin.” Sparrow saluted him.

“Given the amount of initiative you’ve shown – and coupled with Danse’s recommendation – I’m promoting you to Field Scribe under the Paladin’s command,” Maxson announced. “You’ll be working most closely with Proctors Teagan and Ingram, but I advise that you introduce yourself to all the ranking staff on the Prydwen. After that, get some rest, because I have an immediate mission for you two tomorrow.”

“Yes, Elder,” Sparrow said, standing to attention. “Ad Victoriam.”

“Ad Victoriam, Field Scribe.” Maxson nodded as she saluted him and Danse before leaving the command deck.

“I considered making her a Knight but the pilot told me she nearly fell off the vertibird,” Maxson noted dryly. “Besides, she’s frankly wasted as a grunt.”

“Agreed,” Danse observed. “She can handle herself in a firefight but heavy guns and power armour would be beyond her.”

“Which is why you’ll be backing her,” Maxson said as he turned to look down at the Commonwealth once more. “What do you know of her life pre-War?”

“She studied law,” Danse immediately answered. “I get the impression her mother was a military information analyst, her father a quartermaster – or ‘supply sergeant’ as she called him – and her husband a soldier. She, herself, was going to be a military lawyer.”

“Someone familiar with pre-War military logistics and discipline is definitely useful,” Maxson mused. “Native to the Commonwealth?”

“I believe she came from a settlement near the Vault her family took shelter in – Sanctuary Hills,” the Paladin confirmed. “For her, the Great War was about two or so weeks ago.”

“Ah yes, cryogenically frozen in Vault 111 if Haylen’s report was correct.” Maxson looked over his shoulder. “Is she still having trouble with the chems?”

“She hasn’t used any more that I’m aware of.”

“I would prefer you try to keep her away from them. I’ll have Cade give her a check up and make sure she’s fit to serve.”

“She seems pretty committed,” Danse pointed out quietly.

“Keep her that way.”

“Yes, Elder,” Danse promised.

Maxson looked out the window once more. “I intend to purge the Institute from the face of the earth,” he rasped. “I take no love in what I must do, Paladin, but they need to be eradicated – root and branch.”

Danse paused as the implications of that statement dawned on him. “Even the boy?”

“Even the boy, assuming he isn’t a synth sent to string Finlay along.” Maxson sighed. “It seems very… coincidental – only she survived in Vault 111 to follow a trail of clues that has led her to Diamond City and potentially the secrets of the Institute.”

The Elder glanced at Danse over his shoulder. “I believe she’s being played by the Institute for whatever warped reasons they can think of. The clues, a synth that has the personality of an old family friend… Too many coincidences, Paladin.”

“I’d wondered about the synth myself,” Danse admitted. “Though I believe Valentine’s intentions are truly sincere.”

“No doubt they are. They could have programmed him that way.” Maxson sighed again. “Dismissed, Paladin. You and the Scribe will be taking Fort Strong to secure the nuclear arsenal there tomorrow.”

“Ad Victoriam,” Danse saluted before leaving the command deck, wondering why the conversation made him feel so uneasy.

…

Sparrow was relieved to have Danse with her as they were transported to Fort Strong, an old military facility crawling with super mutants, and even more so to have him take the vertibird’s mini-gun. Her new Field Scribe’s armour had been adjusted by one of Proctor Teagan’s people and it fit perfectly over the clean uniform the quartermaster had given her. A proper bed, sheets, soap and clean water for bathing… If not for the general desolation of the landscape beneath her, she’d be sure she was dead and in heaven.

The Paladin seemed a little troubled but since they were about to engage in a mission, Sparrow refrained from asking about it. Once the arsenal was secure, she had permission from Maxson to visit Goodneighbour and chase up Kellogg’s memories while acquiring more supplies for the Prydwen. She could check on Cait at Hangman’s Alley and bring one of the spare turrets Ingram had to beef up the settlement’s defences on the way, then pop into Diamond City and catch up with Piper.

Once the behemoth that rampaged through the ruins of Fort Strong was killed, the vertibird pilot dropped them off and headed back to the Prydwen because of a few lucky hits from the super mutants below. They were mobile but rather fragile, especially against missiles and mini nukes.

As always in a fight, Danse reigned supreme, his mini-gun shredding radioactive green flesh like it was tissue paper. Sparrow wondered if Nate had been that unstoppable or if Danse was – as she suspected – the superior soldier. And then she felt guilty for thinking so.

The Institute pistol was perfect for targeting limbs in V.A.T.s, where she lined up most of her shots because she was shit at shooting from the hip, and so Sparrow focused on crippling the monsters. She was a little uneasy about the Brotherhood’s doctrine involving synths like Nick and the idea of sentient ghouls terrified the hell out of her but super mutants… Super mutants needed to be wiped from the earth along with feral ghouls, deathclaws, radscorpions, radroaches, bloodbugs, bloatflies and those big fucking bears.

They finally secured the arsenal and Danse pulled off his helmet and pulled down his hood to reveal that hard, scarred face topped by scruffy black hair. “Were you hurt, Scribe?” he asked as Sparrow rose from the crouch she’d spent most of the fight in.

“No. You make a very handy portable fortification, Paladin.” Sparrow smiled up at him. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.” Danse looked over the crates of mini nukes. “It’s strange – all the power and devastation of an atom bomb in these small packages.”

“Tell me about it,” Sparrow agreed as she removed her backpack and rummaged in it for some lunch.

“At least the Brotherhood won’t wantonly use it the way others would,” Danse continued with a sigh, running his hand through his hair. When she looked up at him, his expression was still troubled.

“I’m sorry about submitting a report without running it by you first,” she apologised yet again. “I honestly thought Haylen had told you.”

“And according to her, she assumed the same of you.” Danse rubbed his eyes. “Consider the matter dropped so long as you remember to let me know before sending anything off.”

“Then what’s troubling you?” she asked as she pulled out a box of Salisbury Steak she managed to finagle from Teagan’s grubby little hands. If there was a Proctor it would be worth the court martial to punch, it would be the sleazy, vicious little bastard in the cage who wanted her to extort crops from the settlements around here.

“Just… the situation with the Institute.” Danse dropped his helmet on the ground and sat down on a little hillock of rubble. “Does it seem… too coincidental to you? Finding the clues to track down the man who killed your husband thanks to a synth with the memories of an old friend?”

“It _does_ feel a bit suspicious,” she admitted as she laid out the portable hotplate that was part of a Field Scribe’s kit, powered by the same fusion cells that fuelled their laser weapons. An ingenious use of ammo that Sparrow had never considered before.

“I’m just worried that the Institute might be playing you for some sick reason,” Danse admitted.

“Kellogg knew I was coming. He referred to me as ‘the backup’,” Sparrow agreed as she switched the hotplate on and set the steak in its foil container on it to heat up. Danse was so preoccupied that he missed one of his favourite dishes being cooked right in front of him.

“Backup for what?” Danse asked of the air.

“If I knew that, I’d feel a lot easier.” She got out a combat knife and some tatos to be sliced up and fried. She’d gotten used to the potato-tomato hybrid, though she missed the strains that made them.

“As would I.” Danse sighed, shaking his head. “I apologise for the maudlin musings, Scribe. Just sitting here in the ruins of humanity’s pride – and knowing we’re chasing fools who would walk in their footsteps – makes me broody, I guess.”

Sparrow flipped the steak so it would heat evenly. “I can’t fault you. While you were piling those super mutant carcasses up in the dining hall, I went through the general’s logs. God, but what a mess we made of the world.”

“If nothing else, I’m glad to have you here, because you recognise that,” Danse told her with a too-rare smile. “I like to think you can help the Brotherhood avoid the mistakes of the past.”

“Those who forget history are doomed to forget it,” Sparrow murmured as she handed Danse his lunch.

The Paladin stared down at the steak and then looked up at her again. “How did you get this?” he asked.

“Promised a favour to Proctor Teagan that makes me feel slightly dirty,” Sparrow said with a grimace.

“Favour?” Danse asked flatly.

It took a second for her to realise the implication of his question and Sparrow flushed, quickly shaking her head. “Nothing like _that_. I just need to visit Nordhagen Beach and talk them into supporting the Brotherhood. Of course, Teagan implied I should threaten them with violence, the ass…”

Danse relaxed slightly. “I’m sure you’ll be able to offer them similar terms to the ones Elder Maxson proposed for any new settlements we sponsor. I suspect that we will be establishing a permanent presence here, which means we need the goodwill of the settlers themselves.”

“I hope so. I think Ingram mentioned something about modified crops as well – if we get the settlers to use our seeds, then there’ll be more for everyone…” Sparrow put the hubcap she’d salvaged from some scrap on the hotplate to fry her tatos.

“Hmm, it’s what we do in the Capital Wasteland,” Danse agreed as he began to tuck into the steak. It seemed he was uncomfortable with the thought of her offering intimate favours to Teagan in return for officer’s rations but perfectly alright with her talking settlers into giving up much needed food. He _was_ a soldier and so he probably thought in terms of “If it helps protect people…”

Nate, much as she loved him, was a picky eater. The steak had to be rare with a hint of char to the outside, his potatoes fried in duck fat and the tomatoes sprinkled with sea salt. Getting Codsworth at his insistence had been a lifesaver because the robot got it right every time.

Danse paused, a piece of steak torn from the main bit in his fingers, and realised that she was frying tatos for herself. “I’m sorry, I should have offered you some-“

“It’s alright. I handed the whole lot to you.” Sparrow smiled wryly as she stirred the tatos. “Besides, if you hadn’t been in the way of that super mutant with the laser rifle, I’d be a pile of ashes.”

The Paladin frowned. “You should be eating more,” he insisted, offering the rest of the steak to her. “Even a Field Scribe has intense physical duties that require proper nourishment.”

Sparrow sighed. “Just eat the damned steak, Paladin. I’m not particularly fond of Salisbury.”

“Fine. But we’ll pick up some Brahmin in Diamond City and you can eat that,” Danse declared as he returned to his meal. “No soldier under my command is allowed to starve.”

“I don’t eat steak, alright?” Sparrow found herself snapping at him, much to their mutual surprise.

The firm set of Danse’s jaw softened. “Understood, Scribe.”

She stared down at her tatos, shoving them around disconsolately. She didn’t know why she was so raw about the steak. It had been Nate’s preferred meal, the one luxury he allowed himself after returning from the hellhole that was Anchorage, and she gladly let him have it whenever they could afford to. Her husband had never offered her a piece, shamefaced because he’d forgotten. The steak was Nate’s and Nate’s alone.

Nearly three weeks in her perception of the world since the bombs came and they were frozen. Sometimes it felt like hours and other times like months or maybe years.

The silence stretched out as she finished frying the tatos and ate them with her fingers, the salt-grainy texture soft and slick against her tongue. In the settlements, they dug out the seeds first for planting and Sparrow felt decadently guilty for eating the nutty-flavoured bits of nothing, as if she were depriving a community of food.

“When will you be heading to Goodneighbour?” Danse suddenly asked.

“Tomorrow or the day after,” Sparrow told him as she finished off her tatos. “I’ll be going in civilian clothing – I don’t much like provoking trouble with those who see the Brotherhood as a threat.”

“And in that den of ghouls, they would definitely see us as a threat,” Danse agreed unhappily. “How often do people walk around in power armour? We have a couple unmarked sets.”

“Only raiders,” Sparrow told him. “If you want to come along, it’s military fatigues or road leathers for you.”

“And the heaviest combat armour we have on stock,” Danse said grimly. “I’m not letting you travel alone. Not when I don’t know the people you’ll be dealing with.”

“Why?” Sparrow asked bluntly. She was picking up some interesting signals from the Paladin – his protectiveness seemed more than just the concern of a commanding officer for his subordinate.

“Because I don’t like my people walking into situations I’m uneasy about without me at their side,” Danse answered, somewhat evasively. “I would do the same for Rhys, Haylen or even Brandis.”

“Uh huh,” Sparrow observed, maybe just a trifle sceptically.

The Paladin studied her, brown eyes warm with something that she flinched away from even as she craved it. Clinging to him, a steel bulwark in the chaos of the vertibird flight as he assured her that he’d never let her fall… She wanted that closeness, that strength, even as her mind screamed that Nate was dead nearly three weeks ago by her time and it was too soon.

“Road leathers and metal armour would work better than fatigues and combat armour,” she decided as she changed the subject, shying away from the intense scrutiny. “You don’t need to look like a Gunner.”

“Plenty of successful raiders wear combat armour,” Danse said quietly. “I assume you’ll be going as a trader again?”

“Seeing as I’m established there and the General had a nice stash of silverware in his safe, yes,” Sparrow confirmed. “Nick can keep his mouth shut, especially if it irritates someone named Hancock who apparently runs Goodneighbour, and Piper will play along with the claim that I’ve turned to trading in order to search for my missing son.”

“Then I am your bodyguard,” Danse stated firmly. “A successful trader always outfits their guards in the best.”

Sparrow wiped down the frypan and hotplate before stowing them back in the pack, collecting the foil container the steak came in so it could be scrapped for aluminium. Ingram was even more frugal than most Commonwealth settlers – and that was truly saying something.

“Go and report to Elder Maxson,” Danse ordered. “I’ll watch over the arsenal until the Brotherhood comes here to secure it.”

She looked up at the man. “Will you be alright on your own?”

“If it takes you more than two hours to send reinforcements, Scribe, I won’t be happy and will come out firing,” Danse said bluntly. “So yes, I will be alright so long as you don’t take too long.”

“Yes, sir,” Sparrow told him with a wry smile before turning for the door.

Even after she exited the fort and fired the smoke grenade to bring in the vertibird, she felt the heat of his gaze on her back.


	4. Confessions in Goodneighbour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reliving her husband's death in the Memory Den leads Sparrow Finlay to confess her worst failings as a wife and mother to Danse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Sparrow and Danse won’t shut up, I swear! Trigger warning for death, violence, alcoholism, postnatal depression, fantastic racism and mentions of drug addiction/abuse, child neglect and abuse, and grief.

“I was beginning to think you didn’t like me anymore.”

Cait regarded Sparrow with unwarranted suspicion as the Scribe entered Hangman’s Alley, a crooked maze of corrugated steel walls and wooden stairs that nevertheless had a healthy crop of corn and tatos growing near a still-solid brick building. Danse reminded himself that the Vault Dweller felt sorry for the chem-addled brawler and that introducing her teeth to his fist for her rudeness wasn’t appropriate, even though he felt it was. The settlers, four in number, tended the crops or pumped water with one standing on a guard post with a decently modded pipe rifle in hand.

“Had to report to the Brotherhood,” Sparrow explained as she opened her satchel to reveal the materials for a machine gun turret. Proctor Ingram had forbidden the Field Scribe from taking one of the already-assembled turrets but instead took her aside and showed her how to make one from scavenged materials. Passing through an old high school – the one Sparrow’s husband had apparently attended – gave them access to all the required components.

“I saw the airship,” Cait observed with an appropriate level of awe. “Good choice picking the big guns.”

“I’m glad you approve,” Danse noted, unable to entirely remove the sarcasm from his voice. Cait reminded him of too many troublemakers in Rivet City and the idea of Sparrow being friends with her made the Paladin uncomfortable. Nick was useful and from the sounds of it, Piper was friendly enough – albeit rather nosy as befitted a reporter. But aside from raw muscle, Cait was a disaster waiting to happen.

“Hello Paladin Tightarse,” the brawler greeted, flashing him a cheerful, slightly bloodthirsty grin. “Did they remove the stick up your arse with the power armour?”

“Behave, both of you,” Sparrow said over her shoulder as she began to set up the turret. To Danse’s approval, the sentry remained on duty while the farmers wandered over to see what the Scribe was doing.

Cait rolled her eyes at Sparrow’s back. “Don’t tell me you’ve undergone the same operation he did?” she asked.

“Unlike some, Field Scribe Finlay appreciates the need for military discipline and acts accordingly,” Danse barked at the redhead.

“Is that what you’re calling it?” Cait asked with a leer.

“Are you implying I’m having improper relations with my immediate subordinate?” Danse asked through gritted teeth, wondering if he could get away with just one fucking punch.

“Of course not. I imagine you’re all very proper. Lights off, eyes closed and thinking of the Brotherhood.” Cait made a rude noise between her teeth and laughed openly at Danse’s glare.

For someone who was so riddled with chems she couldn’t think straight, the brawler was far too perceptive for Danse’s comfort. Since Sparrow had fixed a meal for him in the ruins of Fort Strong, he’d imagined her in his bed, curled up safe between him and the wall. The flashes of temper she showed, anger hiding the grief and vulnerability in those brown eyes, were almost as treasured as the smiles she rarely displayed.

The Paladin had known this woman for barely three weeks and he was falling in love with her.

“Cait, back off,” Sparrow said over her shoulder with a hint of steel in the tone. “Danse is one fight you won’t win, even if he isn’t in power armour.”

He folded his arms and stared down at the brawler as she assessed him with the eyes of a fighter. It was actually something of a shame that the Brotherhood had come so late to the Commonwealth because if they’d managed to get a hold of the Erin woman before the chems did, she could have been an asset instead of a liability.

“Fine,” she groused. “But you need to take me out for a bit. I’ve run out of chems and I need to hit something.”

“We’re going to Goodneighbour after here and then Diamond City,” Sparrow informed her. “I won’t lie – I want to see if the doctor can reduce your dependence on the chems.”

“Why the hell for?” Cait demanded angrily.

“Because you’ve taken so many for so long that they do nothing for you anymore,” the Scribe said as she screwed in something.

“They stop me from hurting!” Cait shot back before stalking away to sulk in the corner where the beds were located.

“I can certainly sympathise with that,” Sparrow said with a sigh before returning to her work. When Danse went to point out that despite her trauma, she hadn’t become like Cait, the look in her brown eyes silenced the words in his mouth and so he went to do something practical like assess the defences of this settlement.

The raiders who originally built the place certainly knew what they were doing, he conceded as he studied the arrangement of walls, guard posts and other defences. Located between two tall buildings of solid brick, Hangman’s Alley could be a death trap with a few armed settlers and a couple machine gun turrets – and Danse made note of where to place everything.

He approached the sentry, who’d been relieved by a woman with a strong resemblance to him, and noted the man cleaning his gun with the ease of a professional. “Citizen,” he greeted.

“Paladin,” replied the man with a strong NCR accent. He was tall and lean as the westerners were, long dirt-brown hair pulled back into a tail and leather bracers on his arms.

“You’re familiar with the Brotherhood?” Danse asked in some surprise.

“Yeah. The NCR and the lot at Lost Hills didn’t always get along.” The man flashed a bone-yellow smile. “I’m Simon, my sister’s Jane, and the other two are Anne and Sarah.”

Danse looked over his shoulder at the two women watching Sparrow as she explained how to build the turrets for themselves. Very technically she was breaking the laws of the Brotherhood but such turrets were common in the Commonwealth. He would have to remind her that anything more advanced wasn’t permitted to be shared – it would be a stretch to allow the use of the Brotherhood’s modified crops, though the decision would rest in Elder Maxson’s hands.

“Has Cait been giving you trouble?” he asked Simon quietly.

“She’s been pretty good,” Simon answered as he cleaned his pipe-rifle. “Kept on looking for Sparrow – err, Scribe Sparrow. There’s grief in Cait’s past, grief no one should bear.”

Danse raised an eyebrow. “Know her, do you?”

“No, but my mother was treated like a dog and worse by our stepfather, so I know the signs,” Simon explained. “I don’t ask questions and she doesn’t give answers, but she’s faithfully guarded us since Sparrow sent her here to do so.”

The Paladin found himself flushing with shame. He’d written off Cait as useless and trouble waiting to happen, but she’d kept her promise to Sparrow.

“I owe her an apology,” he muttered.

Simon nodded. “That you do. Easy to judge when you’ve not had trouble in your life.”

Danse had suffered hunger and worse in his life before joining the Brotherhood. But that option hadn’t been here in the Commonwealth for Cait. Perhaps, like so much in the Wasteland, there was something that could be salvaged.

He left Simon to his weapon cleaning and approached Cait as she paced around the sleeping area of the settlement, tucked under one of the walkways in a pragmatic use of limited space. “I owe you an apology,” he said without preamble.

Cait made that rude noise again. “Why bother?” she asked flatly.

“Because I assumed that you couldn’t keep a promise, that you were nothing but trouble.” Danse hated to admit he was wrong but it had to be done. “I was wrong.”

The brawler’s green eyes flashed to Sparrow. “I thought about just pissing off after Tommy dumped me – said I was getting sloppy, the fucking ghoul bastard – but Sparrow’s all ‘I need help to find my baby boy’ and shite. Fucking Institute probably does worse to kids than what happened to me and there’s no way for them to fight back like I did.”

Danse wasn’t even going to ask what happened to Cait, though it had to be fairly horrific to turn a child into a hardened, chem-addled fighter. “The Brotherhood’s doing what we can to help,” he assured her.

“You might be, but I’m betting the ones on the big ship are doing it for their own reasons,” Cait noted shrewdly. “Still, rather be with you lot than the Railroad and the Minutemen are all fucking dead.”

Danse couldn’t pass up the chance to ask a few questions of a local. “Do you know how the Minutemen died?” he asked.

“Got themselves killed at Quincy,” Cait answered. “Before that, used to be citizen soldiers. Armed the farmers and did regular patrols, the whole gig.”

The Paladin raised an eyebrow. “Impressive.”

“They were for a bit until General Becker died. Some big monster came out of the sea near the Castle, their old outpost, and scattered the group to the wind.” Cait shrugged with studied nonchalance. “Rumour is might be one or two running around doing their thing but with how the world works, they’ll be all dead soon enough.”

“A pity. Anyone who works to protect people should be applauded, not derided,” Danse observed quietly, making a note to see if the remaining Minutemen could be recruited into the Brotherhood. Local ground staff would be very helpful if a permanent presence was going to be established, as Maxson had implied and Sparrow certainly wanted.

“If you give a shite, the last ones were heading north towards Concord,” Cait told him with a yawn. “Surprised Sparrow didn’t stumble across them on the way down here.”

Given that the Vault Dweller had been desperately searching for a purpose, she would have thrown herself into the Minutemen’s cause and died fruitlessly – as much as Danse might applaud their goals, citizen soldiers were almost never trained or equipped properly and so they became easy prey for those more vicious than they – or became addicted to the power and turned into predators themselves.

“Thanks for the information,” Danse told the brawler sincerely.

“No problem. Might have a stick up your arse but you’re easy on the eye.” Cait leered again as Danse flushed.

“Paladin?” Thankfully, Sparrow saved him from more embarrassing conversation with Cait.

He turned around to face her and the completed turret. “Alright, listen up,” he said, taking command of the situation. “I’m going to show you where to put guards and turrets for the best defence!”

Because the Alley was so small, it only took him ten minutes to explain the strategies, and even Cait was nodding thoughtfully. She wasn’t Brotherhood material but if she could be cleaned up from the chems, she could make a real go of it in a place like here.

“I won’t lie,” Danse finished. “This settlement is sponsored by the Brotherhood of Steel and so we’ll need supplies from you. But in return, there will be regular vertibird patrols and we can be anywhere in the Commonwealth within two hours if a smoke grenade is launched, so you will be under our protection.”

“How much will we be tithed?” Simon asked.

“Forty percent of the cap value of your grown crops or goods equal to the amount annually, delivered to us quarterly, and free bivouac for our soldiers,” Danse admitted. “In return, you have the right to ask for medical treatment when the Scribes are here and the door’s always open for anyone who wants to join our ranks.”

Sparrow nodded in Danse’s direction. “There’s also a cap bonus offered for any form of intact pre-War tech that you find.”

The NCR man sighed. “More cost than I wanted, but still better than nothing,” he admitted.

“Everything has a price and at least the Brotherhood are upfront about theirs, from the looks of it,” Cait observed.

Danse nodded. “I used to be a junk vendor in Rivet City. The Brotherhood helped me and I sincerely hope that it can help you too.”

“We really don’t have a choice,” Simon pointed out with another sigh. “But after what happened in the west-“

He shuddered and Danse recalled distant rumours of a cruel legion of soldiers.

“-It’s better than what we had,” the man finished. “Jane, Sarah, Anne?”

“We’ll do it,” said the small, dark-haired woman who had to be Sarah. Anne, a grey-eyed woman with a swollen belly, nodded in silent agreement.

“Fine,” Jane, a slightly shorter version of her brother with a dead right arm, agreed.

“Good. I’ll pass on word to Elder Maxson so he can arrange patrols,” Danse promised. “Is there anything in the meantime we can do for you, keeping in mind there’s only two of us – three if we count Cait.”

“You’d better,” the woman muttered darkly. “I’m bored shiteless here.”

“Just the usual raiders,” Jane said. “Like radroaches, they are.”

“We’ll see what we can do on the way to Goodneighbour,” Sparrow said. “I’ll come back in a day or two, hopefully.”

They made their farewells before leaving the settlement. Of course, Cait knew how to get to Goodneighbour, which was another walled settlement near the place she called the Combat Zone.

Danse knew scum when he saw it and Goodneighbour was riddled with it, human and ghoul alike. So he wasn’t particular surprised when a bald standover man approached and offered ‘protection’ for a low price.

“Fuck off, dipshite,” Cait told him rudely. The Paladin thought she was being rather polite.

“Whoa, whoa, time out,” rasped a ghoul in a ridiculously ornate outfit and tricorn hat as he approached. “What are you doing, Finn?”

“Welcoming them to the neighbourhood,” sneered the standover man.

“On their first visit, you lay off on the protection crap,” Hancock said firmly.

“Why do you care? They’re not from here.”

“Because I said leave them alone. Besides, the redhead is Cait, the reigning champion of the Combat Zone. Three hundred and something kills to her name.” Hancock smiled gruesomely at Cait, who preened a little.

“You’re getting soft, Hancock. Might be a new mayor of Goodneighbour soon,” Finn retorted.

“Come on, Finn, let’s talk about this.” Hancock opened his arms… and pulled a switchblade from his back pocket, driving it into Finn twice. As the man sank to the ground, Danse appalled at the casual murder, Hancock said sadly, “Why’d you have to break my heart like that?”

Cait put a hand on Danse’s forearm to stop him from interfering. “Don’t,” she advised softly. “Hancock’s house, Hancock’s rules.”

The ghoul approached the trio, still smiling, and Danse noted the ripple of Sparrow’s jaw in distaste. “You alright, sister? I know Cait would have handled old Finn, but sometimes a mayor has to make a point.”

The Scribe swallowed as she nodded. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“Good. Don’t let this incident taint our little community.” Hancock tilted his head, black eyes fixed on the slender brown-haired woman. “Goodneighbour’s of the people, for the people. You feel me?”

“I feel you,” Sparrow said with far more diplomacy than Danse would have shown.

“Good. Just remember who’s in charge.” The ghoul wasn’t even subtle in his pointed threat. “Rumour had it Cait was travelling with a Vault Dweller. I guess you’d be her?”

“Sparrow Finlay at your service,” she answered politely. “The gentleman with me is Danse.”

“Is his first name Tap, Square or Ballroom?” Hancock asked amusedly.

Cait snickered. “Definitely Square. He’s boring as batshit and got a stick up his arse.”

Danse simply pegged the ghoul with the time-honoured death glare. There was one freak he would gladly send to hell.

“You must be one of those Brotherhood types,” Hancock continued, black eyes switching to Danse. “I have one simple rule: don’t fuck with me or Goodneighbour and we’ll be good. Feel me?”

“Don’t interfere in Brotherhood business and you should be fine,” Danse informed the mayor through gritted teeth.

“Fair enough.” Hancock smiled again and looked to Sparrow. “What brings the Sole Survivor of Vault 111 to our little community? You’re famous in Diamond City, you know.”

“I need to see Dr Amari,” Sparrow said with a sigh.

“So Piper said because Nick Valentine told her. I had her over here a couple days ago and offered her and Nat shelter if they need it.” Hancock tsked. “Not surprised McDonough’s trying to shut her down. Calling the man a soulless synth is an insult to soulless synths.”

The ghoul pointed to the street corner. “Go around there and turn left. The Memory Den’s hard to miss.”

“Thanks, Mayor Hancock,” Sparrow said with bemused gratitude.

“No one particularly wants the Institute around,” the ghoul pointed out – rather reasonably, Danse had to concede. “Nick’s been waiting for you since last week.”

“I had to report to the Prydwen,” Sparrow said quietly.

“That the name of the airship? Someone likes his medieval poetry.” Hancock smirked and headed for the best building in the neighbourhood, leaving a bemused Sparrow, a smirking Cait and a slightly confused Danse behind.

“Let’s go to the Memory Den,” Sparrow finally announced with a sigh. “Hopefully, we can get some answers.”

…

“Are you feeling alright?” Amari asked anxiously as Sparrow climbed out of the machine, eyes blind with tears from reliving Nate’s death and Shaun’s kidnapping.

Danse caught her. Cait had taken herself off to Hotel Rexford to get some chems and at the moment, raw with the trauma of seeing Nate’s killing through the cold mind of Kellogg, Sparrow heartily wished she could join her.

Wiping the tears from her eyes, she managed to make all the right sorts of noises with Amari and assure her that she could reach this Institute renegade Virgil. Except she had no fucking clue about how to do so.

The Paladin led her upstairs to where Nick waited. When the synth spoke in Kellogg’s voice, it took Danse grabbing her – mindful of the rules in Goodneighbour – to stop her from clawing the synthetic skin from his face in mindless rage. When the detective spoke in his usual voice and expressed surprise at Danse’s flat assertion that he sounded completely different, Sparrow choked out an apology.

At the moment, she wanted to purge her emotions through almost anything – chems, violence, she didn’t care.

Danse hauled her out into the Memory Den, a worried Nick in their wake, and they found Hancock addressing his people about the danger of the Institute. The ghoul wrapped up his speech after the cheers of the crowd and emerged downstairs, looking grim. “What the fuck happened in there?” he asked.

“Sparrow relived her husband’s murder through the eyes of the killer,” Danse answered flatly. “But we know how the Institute gets around.”

“That so?” Hancock asked sympathetically.

“Yes,” she grated. “They use teleportation. And the only person I know who can help me lives in the Glowing Sea!”

“You’ll need lead-lined armour, RadAway, Rad-X and a few other goodies,” Hancock noted. “Pity you’re not a ghoul – you’d be immune to it.”

“Until her brain rotted,” Danse pointed out tightly.

“There is that minor danger.” The Mayor of Goodneighbour looked around at the dispersing crowd. “I can throw in a few bottles of Rad-X, a bit of Jet and Buffout. Weird things crawl out of the Glowing Sea and you might need the extra oomph.”

Sparrow wanted to scream. Her world had been ripped apart again and they were calmly discussing supplies!

Hancock eyed her thoughtfully. “Maybe a bit of Daytripper or some Grape Mentats would help instead.”

“No. She needs some rest.” Danse looked up at the sky. “Is there somewhere safe to sleep around here?”

“The Hotel Rexford rents beds,” Hancock said.

Danse scowled but nodded. Sparrow forced herself to remain stone-faced and offer Hancock thanks. God, but that Daytripper sounded good.

“If you need anything, feel free to pay a visit. I keep an open door policy, even for the Brotherhood.” Hancock gave a lipless smile and headed back into his house.

Sparrow pulled herself from Danse’s grip and stalked towards the Hotel Rexford, which was near the Memory Den. Oblivion was so tempting right now. So very tempting.

Danse caught up with her just outside. “I know what you’re going through is hard,” he began, only for her to round on him, needing an outlet for the pain and rage.

“What the fuck would you know?” she screamed at him.

The Paladin’s strong jaw rippled with tension. “Because I had to shoot my best friend and fellow Brother in the head after he became infected with FEV and became a super mutant!”

Several jaws dropped as the ghouls who made up the Neighbourhood Watch eyed the duo warily.

Danse ignored them, his brown eyes pleading. “Don’t. Please. I’m not asking for the Brotherhood, I’m asking for myself.”

He had no right, no right at all, to make such a plea after she saw her husband die again. Sparrow stormed past him into Hotel Rexford, intent on getting absolutely drunk and to hell with the Litany.

…

“What the hell happened?” Cait asked Paladin Tightarse with some surprise as Sparrow stormed in, dropped a handful of caps and demanded the strongest whiskey in the house. Of all the damned things the brawler expected, the straitlaced Vault Dweller downing the harsh alcohol in one shot like a professional wasn’t one of them, not with her pushing a visit to the doctor on Cait.

Danse looked like he’d been dragged facedown through hell and back again, probably because he was watching the woman he loved destroy her future in the Brotherhood. He meant well, she supposed, and it was rare an iron-spined prick like him had the balls to apologise – even if he’d been right about her.

“What happened?” she demanded loudly. If he didn’t answer her, she was going to take the Psycho and take it out on him.

“The Memory Den made her relive the murder of her husband through Kellogg’s eyes,” he grated.

Cait sat back down, rocked by the revelation. Then she waved the bartender over; the ghoul had made plenty of money selling alcohol to the Combat Zone, so she figured a favour or two was owed. “Put their drinks on me tab,” she said.

“No,” Danse protested, only to find a glass of whiskey shoved in his hand.

“She’s hurting at the moment,” Cait pointed out as she swigged her bottle of Gwinett Ale. One thing about Hotel Rexford was that the beer was always good and the chems better. “She can’t use chems, so she’s only got booze left.”

The Paladin was practically crying, a sad sight to see. Cait figured he should have a drink because he obviously needed it.

It was a bit grim to see the pair of them going through shit but Cait knew everyone was scum beneath the surface. Sparrow’s son was gone, taken by the Institute, and Danse was cock-blocked by a dead man. The sooner they realised the world was a shit place, the better, because it would stop hurting so much. Good intentions meant nothing in the Wasteland.

The Paladin put the alcohol she’d so generously provided on the bar and caught Sparrow’s hand as she reached for it. “No,” he grated desperately. “We have a trail to the Institute. Power armour and a hazmat suit can get us through the rads with some Rad-X and RadAway. We can still find Shaun… but not if you lose yourself. If you won’t do it for me, do it for your son.”

“That’s a low fucking blow, Danse,” Cait told him flatly. “You shouldn’t dangle hope in front of her like that.”

Sparrow stared at the Paladin… and broke down into incoherent sobbing. He picked her up like she was a teddy bear in the hands of a behemoth, so Cait reached for the whiskey and told the bartender to stick the room on her tab with a sigh.

There were no happy endings in the Wasteland but damned if she didn’t want to see one for a change. If anyone could pull it off, Cait supposed it would be Sparrow Finlay.

…

Sparrow’s hands were bruised from beating Danse’s chest as she wept incoherently, damning him and the whole fucking world to hell. The Paladin was like a brick wall of warm flesh, not even grunting though he surely had bruises. Damn him, damn the Brotherhood and damn the fucking Commonwealth.

Eventually she sobbed herself to sleep and Danse didn’t even shift a damn bit. Fucking oversized Paladin bastard.

When she woke up, a foul taste in her mouth from the whiskey, eyes red and gritty, and hands a mass of bruises, he was still awake and watching her with those haunted brown eyes.

“I failed you,” he said simply. “I should have got you to see Doctor Quinlan about your emotional trauma before we came here.”

“What good would it have done?” she asked bitterly. “That son of a bitch was just so fucking cold when he killed Nate.”

“And he’s now dead,” Danse reminded her gently. “Aside from where to find this Virgil, what else did you find out?”

“Aside from his fucking life story?” Sparrow muttered. “He had Shaun for a few months. He looked about ten or so.”

“So what we feared was true,” Danse noted. “What else?”

Sparrow raised her tear-filled eyes to the Paladin’s. “There’s someone – probably the old man that Kellogg referred to – that Shaun considers his father.”

“Oh, Sparrow.” Danse breathed her name with sympathy and sorrow. “I am so very, very sorry.”

“I want them dead,” she said fiercely. “I want them dead for what they’ve done to Shaun.”

“And we will make it happen,” he promised.

The utter conviction in his voice made her believe him. Then she remembered how she acted last night and Maxson’s lecture on appropriate behaviour, and laughed despairingly. “There goes my career in the Brotherhood,” she half-laughed, half-sobbed.

“You don’t need to worry,” Danse said quietly. “I’ll take the blame, seeing as I failed to offer the appropriate emotional support.”

“You’re shitting me, right?” Sparrow blurted in frank amazement. “If not for you, I’d have not reached Diamond City!”

“As your commanding officer, it was up to me to make sure you were psychologically capable of handling any duty,” he explained with a sigh.

“I’m sorry, does the Litany include ‘how to cope with taking a stroll around a murderous mercenary’s subconscious’?” she asked sarcastically.

“Not exactly,” Danse admitted.

“Then get over yourself. I’m a big girl. I can handle whatever discipline Maxson throws at me.” The Vault Dweller smiled grimly. “Especially since I’m the only one who can find Virgil.”

“Who is likely our only way to find the Institute,” Danse agreed.

Sparrow sat up in the bed, swearing softly when she saw her hands… and only a couple bruises on Danse’s pecs. “What are you made of, iron?” she groused.

The Paladin reached over for a stimpak on the bedside table. “Not quite. You don’t hit very hard.”

He jabbed the needle into her arm and injected the healing stimulant; Sparrow watched her hands go from purple-black to yellow-brown with patches of green as they stopped hurting so much.

“I’m sorry,” she said ashamedly.

“Why? Better you beat your hands bloody than rot your brains with the alcohol they serve here or become addicted to chems.” Danse pulled out the syringe and set it aside.

“Again,” Sparrow corrected with a sigh.

The Paladin looked at her oddly. “What do you mean by ‘again’?”

Sparrow lowered her gaze in shame, looking at the Paladin’s flat stomach. The man was in superb physical shape, even when compared to Nate.

“I spent the last three months before the bombs fell addicted to Daytripper and Calmex,” she confessed. “When Shaun was born, everything just… went to hell. Nate was in Anchorage, my mother had been transferred to Washington – what you call the Capital Wasteland – and I had this screaming spawn that made messes at both ends on my hands. I felt useless and clumsy, so the Daytripper made me feel like a social butterfly and the Calmex helped with my balance and coordination.”

“The birthing sadness,” the Paladin said quietly. When she looked at him, he sighed. “It’s something mothers sometimes suffer from. I don’t know why.”

“The military psychiatrist called it ‘postnatal depression’,” Sparrow admitted. “Nate managed to get an honourable discharge after we won Anchorage because I was a wreck; he used the connections he’d built through my father to get some Addictol to help me shake off the addiction and Codsworth to help with the baby – if it became known I was a chem addict, I’d never get a decent job anywhere, let alone the military.”

Her words became very soft. “I was just getting my life back together when the bombs fell.”

“Hell.” Danse sighed, no doubt in disappointment. His opinion had come to mean a lot to Sparrow and to lose his trust and respect… That would hurt a lot.

Then he shifted, his face coming back into the light and the pity on it enough to break her heart.

“As Senior Paladin, I have a significant amount of leeway. That means we’re going to take the time to travel back to Sanctuary Hills and give your husband the burial he deserves.” Danse sighed again. “I won’t lie – I want to go through Concord. There might be some Minutemen alive there we can recruit. At least, that’s what I’ll be telling Elder Maxson in addition to searching for more clues about the Institute.”

“You’d lie to your commanding officer-?” Danse silenced her by putting his fingers on her lips, the callus rubbing against the chapped flesh.

“It’s not a lie. I intend to do everything I just said. But I think that burying Nate is the priority.”

“Why?” Her lips moved against his fingers.

“Because you need closure.” His fingers trailed along the scar that split her lips and ran down her chin. Something deep within fluttered briefly, a butterfly stirring its wings before falling still once more.

I think I could love this man one day, Sparrow realised as his fingers fell away. Not yet. But one day.

It was that thought, and Shaun, that made her crawl out of bed and head for the shower. She would find her son and make a new life in this wasteland.


	5. New Home, Old Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After coming across the last survivors of Quincy in Concord, Sparrow and Paladin Danse lead them to Sanctuary Hills. Old griefs are laid to rest, old friends found and an agreement that could alter the course of the Commonwealth reached.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism with mentions of implied drug addiction/use and postnatal depression. My Danse grows a bit as a character, though it’s a slow and steady process.

Concord would have made for a nice little settlement with all the relatively intact brick buildings and loads of scrap material… if not for the raiders infesting the place and pinning the last of the Minutemen down in the Museum of Freedom. A rangy dark-skinned man with a pinned up hat and a laser musket cranked up his weapon and fired an impressive shot, but it was apparent that he was exhausted and would soon fail if help didn’t come soon. Fortunately for him and his friends, Paladin Danse and Field Scribe Finlay were just that.

Cait had chosen to remain in Goodneighbour for a bit, the brawler still troubled by the events of the past couple days, while Piper couldn’t leave her little sister for too long and Nick was working an impressive backlog of cases. That left Danse and Sparrow on their own, which was probably a good thing as she was still fragile from her confession and he was trying to provide support while giving her space. If she had an addictive personality by nature, sooner or later Maxson would throw her out no matter what Danse explained – but if the chem use came from repetitive trauma, then the underlying causes needed to be addressed.

Danse cursed his lack of power armour and mini-gun, relying on his laser rifle to deal with the heavily armoured raiders while Sparrow focused on headshots and giving the sniper on the balcony some relief. Within a few minutes the outside raiders were wiped out and the sniper took a moment to wipe his sweaty forehead and hands. “Thanks!” he yelled down at them. “There’s more inside and I’ve got a few settlers trapped with me.”

“Then let’s send them to hell,” Danse declared, feeling more like himself since Goodneighbour. He kicked open the double doors and introduced the startled raiders inside to the best the Brotherhood had in training and weaponry.

Short work was made of the bandits and soon Danse was looking Preston Garvey, the last of the Minutemen, in the eye. “I don’t know who you two are but your timing is impeccable,” the handsome, brown-eyed man said enthusiastically. “We’ve been holed up here for a week or so and I thought today was the end of us all.”

“Glad to help,” Sparrow told him, earning a smile from the Minuteman. “But I suspect there’s more to be done.”

“Not wrong,” observed the sun-darkened man in an improvised technologist’s outfit leaning against the desk with a working terminal. “There’s a nasty SOB out there who wants our hides and he needs to be dealt with.”

“Tell them the plan, Sturges,” Preston commanded.

“Old vertibird crashed up on the roof. Passenger left a set of power armour up there.” Sturges grinned like a child with a bowl of gum drops. “Gets better – there’s a mini-gun too.”

“Problem is we need the fusion core in the basement,” Preston observed. “I hate to sound like I’m putting all the work on you, but I haven’t eaten in two days and we ran out of water today.”

“I’ll get the core, you check out the power armour since you know it better than I,” Sparrow said quickly to Danse, who grinned in anticipation.

“It will be my pleasure to show that scum what a Paladin in power armour can do, Field Scribe.”

“Hehehe,” snickered the old woman sitting on the couch. “All hail the conquering heroes.”

“Mama Murphy,” Preston said with a sigh, only to be hushed.

“I see a bit of what was and what a little is, sometimes what will be,” the woman continued. “I saw the little brown bird come out of the ice box and know she’s looking for her boy.”

Given that Sparrow hadn’t revealed any of her life story to these people, Danse regarded Mama Murphy warily. She could be a synth hoping to plant more clues for the Vault Dweller to follow.

Unfortunately, she fell for it, hook, line and sinker. “Is he alive?”

“He is. I can’t tell you more than that.” Mama Murphy’s pale eyes turned grim. “I know there’s something coming, drawn by the noise. It’s big and angry.”

“Please, tell me,” Sparrow practically begged.

“It’s big and horned. Death itself…” The old woman deflated as she ran out of energy.

“Get that fusion core,” Danse told Sparrow before she got side-tracked. He didn’t believe Mama Murphy, but he wanted power armour before he engaged with the rest of those raiders.

By the time she returned, Danse had given some of his ammo to Preston and shared the water he and Sparrow brought with the settlers. There wasn’t much in the way of food – they were living on the land – but the civilians got what Instamash and mac and cheese were left.

“I want you and Preston sniping at the bastards,” Danse ordered as the Vault Dweller handed over the fusion core. It was half-full, but that was enough to get him through a firefight. “I’ll mop them up with the mini-gun.”

The Minuteman looked ready to tell Danse where to put the orders when Sparrow slanted a quelling glance in his direction. “He’s a Senior Paladin from the Brotherhood of Steel. This sort of shit was what he was trained for.”

Preston nodded reluctantly and cranked his musket to the maximum. The weapon was slow but powerful. Sparrow reloaded the Institute pistol she was attached to. Danse needed to teach her how to handle Righteous Authority properly.

“Wait until you hear me land outside before coming out,” Danse added as he strode for the door. “Neither of you are any good with your heads blown off.”

It was time to teach some human scum a lesson. And he looked forward to every moment.

…

Danse landed with a thud outside and Sparrow dashed out with Preston at her side. The raiders were swearing at each other and focusing on the Paladin, giving her the chance to prime and throw two of the three fragmentation grenades she’d picked up from other raiders at the two stubborn knots near the second line of sandbag barricades. One struck true, scattering a raider everywhere, but the other did nothing but destroy some sandbags.

“A fucking mini-gun!” screamed one lowlife just before Danse, who’d passed on wearing a helmet, rendered him into chow with said weapon.

Another came running up to the warrior found himself hammered to the ground with the barrel of the mini-gun and his head stomped on to make certain.

Preston, who cranked his musket for another shot, whistled in awe. “Damn, he’s good.”

“You have no idea,” Sparrow murmured as she fired her pistol at a charging raider. “No idea at all.”

The battle was well in hand when something rumbled in rage and burst through the concrete.

“Deathclaw! Dammit!” Preston cursed as the horrid beast flung two raiders to the side and charged straight for Danse.

With the extraordinary agility he displayed in power armour, Danse jumped back at the first swipe of the beast’s claws and fended off the second with the mini-gun, breaking the deathclaw’s hand in the process. It roared in fury and lunged, landing on the Paladin and leaving him vulnerable.

“We need to get down there now!” Preston yelled.

Sparrow gave him a tight nod as they went for the door that would lead them to ground level.

By the time they got down there, Danse had managed to fire up his mini-gun again and was pumping bullets into the predator’s belly. She focused on the thick powerful joints as Preston cranked up his musket to deliver a headshot.

Stung by lasers of aqua and scarlet, the deathclaw roared and turned from Danse towards the other two fighters. Sparrow continued to fire, aiming for the bullet-riddled flesh of its stomach, as Preston aimed and pulled the trigger.

The shot struck true, blinding the creature in one eye. Sparrow aimed her pistol for the other one and fired until it halted, roaring in agony. Then she shot the thing some more.

Despite half the power armour trashed and baring his limbs, Danse got to his feet and used the last of the mini-gun’s bullets to hit the deathclaw from behind, then threw the useless weapon at its back and pulled out his laser rifle. After that, the battle was a formality and soon there was a steaming deathclaw carcass amidst the dead raiders.

The Paladin swayed and fell over like a cut tree. Swearing fluently, Sparrow grabbed her medical kit and bolted for the fallen fighter. She knelt by him, pulling out a stimpak to get him moving again, when someone gave an evil chuckle.

A bullet whizzed by her head, grazing her cheek with the sting of hot metal, as she turned and fired her pistol blindly. The blast caught the raider in the face, leaving a searing burn that left him half-blind and screaming.

Preston’s last shot finished him off and ended that terrible scream.

Sparrow touched her cheek, felt blood, but pulled out her last stimpak and jabbed it into Danse. Failing that, she’d have to set up an emergency transfusion and hope for the best.

Danse revived enough to groan and try to push her away. “Dammit, soldier,” he moaned. “What are you doing down here?”

“They’re dead,” she reassured him while Preston came up. “Can you get up?”

“I… think so.” With her help, he sat up with a pained groan.

“That was… pretty amazing,” the Minuteman said in awe.

“I’m glad you approve… soldier,” Danse answered.

“Can you get Sturges?” Sparrow asked Preston. “We’re going to need a stretcher of some kind to haul this big lug.”

“Keep me in the frame,” Danse commanded. “I can walk.”

In the end, the Paladin proved himself correct, though he slowed the pace of the group and needed to lean on the deceptively strong Sturges’ shoulder. Sparrow had to bite back a half-despairing laugh as Preston revealed they were going to Sanctuary – her old home of Sanctuary Hills – on the advice of Mama Murphy. “I came from there,” she finally said. “Before the war.”

They were passing the Red Rocket Truck Stop, Preston giving her a startled glance. “What do you mean?”

“I was put on ice for two hundred years,” Sparrow said grimly, not wanting to be acidic with an essentially decent man who’d watched all his friends die recently. “Then the Institute killed my husband and stole my son.”

“I’m so sorry.” Preston’s voice was sincere. “If there’s anything I can do to help…”

They walked in silence until they came to the monument to the original Minutemen. Preston paused and removed his hat, bowing his head in respect, before turning to Sparrow and Danse. “Thanks for coming with us,” he said. “I’m not sure what’s intact around here, but you’re welcome to stay until the Paladin’s patched up.”

“Give me access to a chem station and that’ll be done in a day or so,” Sparrow assured him. “It’s part of my job as a Field Scribe.”

“Just keep Mama Murphy away from the chems,” Preston said quietly. “They give her the Sight but they’re also rough on her body.”

Sparrow sighed. “I know how that is. Thankfully, the two I used to abuse are rare and impossible to make now.”

“That can only be a good thing,” the Minuteman pointed out. “Look, while you’re here – Scribe? Can you help Sturges set up some things? Your friend’s not going to be travelling for a day or two and if we all put our hearts into it, we can make this a functioning settlement in that time.”

She looked at Danse, who nodded subtly, and then back at Preston. “Alright, I’ll be honest with you. If we help out more than we have, there’s going to be an annual tithe of forty percent of the crops – paid four times a year – or goods equal to that amount for the Brotherhood. In return you get regular vertibird patrols, smoke grenades that will summon help within the hour, medical treatment when the Scribes are here and an extra cap bounty for scavenged pre-War tech.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Scribe,” Preston said slowly. “Before we agree to anything, I need to know what exactly the Brotherhood is. I heard the broadcast – we all did. You don’t bring in an airship like that on a peacekeeping mission.”

“Our target is the Institute and there’s talk of setting up a chapter here,” Danse said with a grimace as Sturges shifted. “Our role is to locate, salvage, preserve and protect pre-War tech from lunatics like the Institute.”

Preston made a slightly sceptical sound – not that Sparrow could fault him. “I want to rebuild the Minutemen,” he admitted bluntly. “I don’t want conflict with your order, but things are hard enough in the Commonwealth without someone deciding they want to take over.”

“The other choice is to let the Institute keep on replacing people with synths,” the Paladin countered with equal bluntness. “Elder Maxson has every intention of purging those bastards and their creations from the Commonwealth.”

“And how many people will die on the way?” Preston sighed and leaned against the railing of the Old North Bridge. “I’m sorry to sound ungrateful – you saved our lives. But as a Minuteman, I need to consider these things. We all do.”

“I understand,” Danse conceded. “Sparrow and I have a mission that will take a few days, so take some time to think about it.”

“As a sign of good faith, I’ll help set up the water pumps and make some beds,” Sparrow told Preston. “There’s… also things I want to collect from my past life.”

“Take what you need, Scribe.” Preston sighed again. “You two seem like good people, but I need to meet the leaders of a group before I – and those I protect – make a decision. I _definitely_ want to meet this Maxson.”

“That’s not unreasonable,” Sparrow pointed out to Danse. “Preston, as a Minuteman, has a lot of influence in the Commonwealth.”

“Understood.” The Paladin grimaced in pain. “I don’t want to sound rude, but can I find somewhere to sit down? I feel like hell.”

“Of course! My apologies.” Preston flushed with embarrassment. “Look, we’ll talk later.”

Sturges helped Danse down the street, Sparrow in their wake, when a familiar voice said, “As I live and breathe!”

“Codsworth?” At the sight of the robot, dinged up and missing a limb but still hovering around, Sparrow burst into tears and rushed to embrace him.

…

Hours later, thanks to Sparrow and her robot, the settlers – a husband and wife, the prophetic Mama Murphy and Sturges – had clean water, rough sleeping bags made from scavenged cloth, and enough food to last them a day or so until Marcy could plant the seeds she’d brought with them. Danse felt for the survivors of Quincy, he really did, but without the protection of the Brotherhood they were going to have a lot more trouble. Thankfully the Scribe had made up some more Stimpaks, ensuring that he would be fit for duty as soon as the day after tomorrow.

The Vault Dweller had changed from her sweaty road leathers into a clean but too-loose floral dress, Codsworth following her and somehow managing to look disconsolate, no mean trick for a Mr Handy. The robot had been devastated to learn about Nate’s death and Shaun’s kidnapping, begging Sparrow to let him accompany her into Vault 111. Of course, clinging to the last remnant of her old life, she agreed.

“Forgive the impertinence, Miss Sparrow, but I must know Paladin Danse’s relationship with you,” the robot said.

“Why do you need to know?” Danse, laid out on a sleeping bag and feeling lousy because Sparrow had run herself to exhaustion helping the settlers, asked bluntly.

“So I can serve properly, of course!” Codsworth retorted, sounding offended.

“Paladin Danse is my friend and commanding officer,” Sparrow told the butler. “If you’re with us in battle, you do as he says. Otherwise, be polite and please obey any reasonable request.”

“Of course, mum,” the robot said cheerfully. “He reminds me a little of Master Nate. When young Shaun is found, I’m sure Master Danse will make an excellent father figure.”

Codsworth floated off to see if anyone needed his help, leaving Sparrow with her face buried in her hands. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “He’s… just lonely.”

“I know he means well,” Danse reassured her gently. How could he share Elder Maxson’s intentions with Sparrow when the hope of finding Shaun was almost the only thing keeping her going?

The Scribe shook her head. “Do you need anything before I get some rest?”

_Bunk with me, so I know you’re safe,_ he thought despite the aching wounds in his scarred hide from that damned deathclaw.

“Some water, if you please,” he requested instead.

Sparrow nodded and padded over the newly swept pavement to pump some clean water from the artesian beneath Sanctuary. When she returned, she knelt and helped him to sit up so he could drink.

“I’ll go up to the Vault tomorrow so you can take it easy,” she said with a tight voice. “Codsworth and I… We want to lay Nate and the others to rest.”

“Denied,” Danse said flatly. “I’m not sending you out alone with a robot.”

A flash of hurt swept across those brown eyes before she went to stand, but Danse caught her forearm.

“Predators or raiders might have moved into the Vault while you were gone. I’m sure Codsworth is capable enough but _I_ would feel easier accompanying you.” He tried to meet her eyes, to show his sincerity. He didn’t want Sparrow to be alone, not while she was so fragile.

“I need to do this on my own with Codsworth,” she answered. “Come with me to the Vault but let me and Codsworth bury Nate on our own.”

“Fine,” he acquiesced reluctantly. “Now get some sleep. No doubt the settlers will keep you busy tomorrow.”

He let go of her forearm reluctantly and watched her walk to her own sleeping bag. She looked over her shoulder and he smiled reassuringly.

Tomorrow was going to be pure hell for her.

…

In the end, Codsworth was the one who dug the grave behind the hedge that was once the pride and joy of Nate Finlay. Miss Sparrow was crying far too hard, Master Danse recovering from that terrible incident in Concord and Mister Preston too busy with helping the settlers to sort themselves out. It was good to have neighbours again, though he knew Miss Sparrow wouldn’t be staying for long – she had duties to this Brotherhood of Steel organisation that appeared to be restoring order to the Commonwealth. He rather hoped she and Master Danse let him come along – it would be good to have someone to serve again and it was obvious she wasn’t eating properly. The settlers were rather lovely people but they weren’t _his_ family.

Master Danse – he knew his title was Paladin but Codsworth thought of the man as the successor to Master Nate – spoke a soldier’s eulogy over the grave. They’d buried all the others up on the hill with a lovely view of the surrounding land, but Nate was planted where the hedge he’d cultivated into the exemplar of household boundary. Codsworth knew the soldier had been very proud about his home with the white picket fence and all the modern conveniences, including himself. Miss Sparrow had been more ambivalent – but young Shaun had been a handful and with her mother down in Washington and Codsworth not around yet, no wonder it had been so hard for her.

Codsworth sighed. He’d been programmed with problem-solving abilities and a certain amount of autonomy by Master Nate because for the first few months, it had been all Miss Sparrow could do to take care of herself and the babe. It had been no hardship – Miss Sparrow had been and still was a lovely woman, though made harsher by her travails in the Commonwealth, and treated him like he was one of the family. Being told to take care as the bombs fell and being embraced on her return had proven that.

When the dark earth was folded over Nate Finlay’s frozen corpse, Mister Preston approached with Mama Murphy, whose oracular abilities were impressive, and Mister Sturges, who was a mechanical genius. The poor Longs were barely keeping themselves together long enough to plant their precious seeds and if Mistress Sparrow asked him to stay, he supposed that he’d be tending the crops so Mister Jun could grieve.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Mister Preston said with simple sincerity as Miss Sparrow collected herself.

“Thanks.” Miss Sparrow managed the ghost of a smile as Master Danse nodded brusquely at the Minuteman.

“We’ve been talking and we’ve decided that we’d definitely like to meet with Elder Maxson before making any decisions about allegiance,” Mister Preston continued. “However, we’re open to trading fairly with the Brotherhood – I’m hoping to raise a new band of Minutemen to support the unprotected settlements.”

“No matter how good your intentions, self-trained militia – citizen soldiers as you call yourselves – are no match for a proper military force,” Master Danse pointed out – quite correctly too.

“True,” Mister Preston agreed. “But the Minutemen have a few tricks up our sleeve, Paladin, tricks I’m happy to deploy against the Institute if a fair alliance is made with your order.”

“Have you considered joining the Brotherhood yourself?” Master Danse asked.

“Thank you for the offer, but no,” Mister Preston replied. “The strength of the Minutemen is that we’re mobile and flexible. It… had its weaknesses - Quincy proved that – but I’ve always preferred lending my neighbour a hand and getting one in return. If you’re willing to help me protect the people of the Commonwealth and treat them fairly, I’m willing to lend my hand – and musket – when you need it.”

Codsworth had to admire Mister Preston’s convictions in the face of Master Danse, who easily had muscle and inches on the Minuteman, and even agree with them to a certain point.

Master Danse looked to Miss Sparrow, who was looking thoughtful. “I’d argue we need all the allies we can get,” she finally said. “There are settlements who would prefer independence over protection out there, but there’s no reason why we can’t set up trade routes.”

“Exactly!” Mister Preston enthused. “I’m willing to work with the Brotherhood if they want to settle here – if they’re like you two, then they seem like a good bunch of people. But I’m not someone’s lackey and the people of the Commonwealth deserve better than to trade one tyrant for another.”

“What can you offer us in alliance?” Miss Sparrow asked, throwing Master Danse a shushing look. “Military technology is a no-no for the Brotherhood to share without a _damned_ good reason, but Proctor Ingram said it was permissible to help out with setting up defences and patching folks up.”

“If I can coordinate enough settlements, I can gain enough people to retake the Minutemen’s old outposts,” Mister Preston immediately answered. “If the Brotherhood were willing to lend a hand as a sign of good faith, I can offer somewhere they can rest and patch up when they’re away from the airship, and talk people into offering good prices for supplies so long as they’re treated fairly.”

“I can’t make promises,” Master Danse said slowly. “But if you’re just asking for the odd hand – and if there’s any pre-War military tech involved, it’s ours – Elder Maxson may be amenable. It would certainly spare vertibirds from having to make patrols…”

The Paladin rubbed his chin. “We have a particular zone of influence around Boston Airport and will be working to sponsor settlements within it. If the Minutemen agree to not interfere – we aren’t tyrants, they’re given the same terms that we offered you – it will make an alliance much easier to achieve.”

“That’s fair enough,” Mister Preston conceded. “The Castle at the southern tip of the coast – old fortress infested with mirelurks – is ours and always has been. Once, it was our main base of operations.”

“Understood. We hold the Airport, Fort Strong and Cambridge Police Station, with Hangman’s Alley as our first sponsored settlement,” Master Danse replied. “We plan to establish influence around Nordhagen Beach but that’s as far north as we intend to go at the moment.”

“Got it.” Mister Preston sighed and removed his hat, wiping at his forehead. “Once we retake the Castle, we’ll definitely open up formal communications with the Brotherhood. Until then, it’s going to have to be informal quid pro quo.”

“What do you want from us in the immediate future?” Miss Sparrow asked shrewdly. Codsworth was rather happy to see the thoughtful glint in her eyes again.

“There’s trouble up at Tenpines Bluff,” Preston immediately answered. “Raiders out from Corvega Factory, I think. They’re terrorising everyone.”

Master Danse’s mouth curled up into something resembling a snarl. “I lost good Knights to those bastards.”

“Then we have a mutual enemy,” Mister Preston pointed out.

“We have to go back that way to the Prydwen,” Miss Sparrow observed. “I definitely want to talk to Proctor Ingram about proper lead-lined armour for our little jaunt into the Glowing Sea.”

Mister Preston exchanged glances with Sturges and Mama Murphy. “I’ll join you,” the Minuteman finally said. “I won’t have it said that the Minutemen got others to do their fighting for them.”

“I’ll finish setting up things here, boss,” Mister Sturges told his commander.

“Thanks, Sturges.” Mister Preston flashed a smile. “Mama Murphy?”

“Do what you must, Preston.” The oracle, shabby just like everything else in the Commonwealth, looked penetratingly at Master Danse.

“A man needs friends in the Commonwealth, Paladin, and you’re going to need them more than most by the time this all ends.” Her voice had fallen into a sing-song. “Remember it’s the heart and soul that makes a person, not the flesh, and that will of steel you have will carry you through the pain to the other side.”

The old woman coughed and pounded her chest. “Jet’s always got a kick to it.”

Master Danse looked at Mister Preston, who shrugged. “Damned if I know what she means. Sturges, can you keep her off the chems while I’m gone?”

“Hush, Preston,” Mama Murphy retorted. “We’re going to need the Sight and so will the little brown bird and the soldier of steel. We all die and my time is soon.”

Miss Sparrow didn’t look happy and Codsworth recalled her own struggle with chems. “Perhaps we should save the Sight for the most important things?” he suggested tentatively. “No need to read the tea leaves, so to speak, when looking outside will tell us the weather.”

“Makes sense,” Mister Sturges agreed readily. Mister Preston was a fine man but Mister Sturges was rather more sensible.

Codsworth looked pleadingly at Miss Sparrow. “Please let me come with you,” he requested. “I still have the buzzsaw and flame-thrower attachments.”

“The more we have for the fight at Corvega, the better,” Mister Preston agreed.

“In that case, if you can wait a day or so, I can send word to Cait,” Miss Sparrow said. “She’ll be pretty annoyed if we don’t invite her to a brawl.”

She pulled out a long thin whistle from her pocket and blew on it; soon enough, the dog from Red Rocket Truck Stop arrived. “Dogmeat,” she greeted, patting the hound on the head. “Get Cait and bring her here.”

The dog barked once and took off, claws clicking against the pavement.

“He led me and two others across half the Commonwealth to find the bastard who took my baby,” Miss Sparrow explained.

“Dogmeat’s pretty smart,” Mister Preston confirmed. “I’ll get back to it and when this Cait arrives, we’ll head out to Corvega. I really appreciate this, both of you.”

“We have mutual enemies,” Master Danse pointed out. Then he groaned as his still-healing wounds must have pulled when he shifted.

“You’re going to rest,” Miss Sparrow said firmly. “Codsworth, honey, could you please get some water from the pumps?”

“My pleasure, mum!” the robot declared, happy to be serving again. It would take some time to adjust to the new Miss Sparrow – and Master Danse’s little quirks would need to be learned – but for the first time since the bombs fell, Codsworth felt content. He had a family to serve again and when they found young Shaun, all would be as it was supposed to once more.


	6. For the Brotherhood's Sake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur Maxson has come to a decision... and neither Sparrow nor Danse like it or can do much about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, implied misogyny, mentions of drug addiction and grief/mourning. I’m also treating raiders like human beings instead of aggro NPCs who will retreat when they know they’re beaten. And this meme has snuck itself into the storyline: http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/6855.html?thread=16773319

“The Capital Wasteland has its share of raiders but the Commonwealth has more of them than radroaches,” Danse noted dryly as Preston sniped the last raider on the roof of the Corvega factory.

“I suspect that a lot of the folk who stumble into raiding would be the same to stumble into the Brotherhood where you’re from,” the Minuteman observed as he lowered his musket. “Once we could have recruited the restless ones into the Minutemen, but now they become raiders or Gunners.”

“Which is to say ‘undisciplined and ruthless’ or ‘disciplined and ruthless’,” Danse pointed out sourly.

“Exactly,” Preston agreed. “I’m grateful for this, I really am.”

Danse looked down over the edge of the roof and saw Sparrow gesticulating forcefully to Cait, who was carrying a Fat Man. “Whatever it is, NO!” he yelled down at the brawler.

“You like to ruin my fun, you do!” retorted the woman, putting the Fat Man down.

Danse, now properly armoured in the T-60 suit picked up in Concord and repaired by that genius Sturges (the man should be a Scribe), stepped off the roof and landed right in front of the two women and Codsworth. “There’s a lot of pre-War tech that can be salvaged in there, soldier,” he told Cait brusquely. “If you don’t like it, leave.”

“If I didn’t like the fragrance of grease, sweat and power armour,” Cait grumbled. “I thought this was Preston’s show.”

“Danse is the better tactician,” the Minuteman admitted. He was a truly humble man and Danse had gotten to like him despite their disagreements over the Brotherhood’s presence in the Commonwealth.

“Thank you.” Danse nodded to Preston before looking at Cait. “Remember, there’ll be plenty of carnage for you inside.”

“Good.” Cait swung her arms loosely. “Let’s go.”

Danse took point and Preston rear as they entered the main part of the factory. It was fighting in closed conditions until they reached the main assembly area, Sparrow quickly hacking the Protectron terminal to add some extra firepower to their squad.

The Paladin had to admit that Codsworth and Cait could hold their own in battle, surpassing Sparrow’s contributions – but she was essentially a civilian forced to fight, not a soldier. He reminded himself to give her some sniper training later to increase her effectiveness in combat.

The raiders had numbers but not training on their side. Once their leader Jared was dead, the remaining few fled for the hills to make trouble for another day. Danse went over to the ham radio that still functioned and switched it to the Brotherhood’s frequency to give them a report.

“This is Paladin Danse. We’ve just secured a pre-War manufactory called Corvega just outside Lexington as per an agreement with the remaining Minutemen. I repeat, this is Paladin-“

“Roger that, Danse.” Elder Maxson himself replied. “Weren’t you supposed to report in after Goodneighbour?”

“I decided that backtracking to Sanctuary Hills via Concord to find some more clues about Field Scribe Finlay’s missing son – and to see if any Minutemen remained – was a sound tactical decision,” Danse promptly explained. “I admit, giving the Scribe some closure – and avenging the Knights I lost to the Corvega scum – was part of my reasoning.”

Maxson sighed. “I hope what we salvage from Corvega is worth the detour, Paladin.”

Danse looked around at the mostly intact factory. “We have a fairly intact production line and resources, Elder Maxson, and that’s just what I can see in front of me.”

“Hmmph.” Maxson made a thoughtful sound. “Is the Scribe with you?”

“I am, Elder,” Sparrow said from behind Danse.

“Care to explain your actions in Goodneighbour?”

Sparrow clenched her fists. “In the course of our investigation into Kellogg’s involvement with the Institute, Elder Maxson, I was forced to relive my husband’s murder through the eyes of his killer. I… did not react well.”

“Obviously.” Maxson’s voice was dry as the Mojave of legend. “I want you to return to the Prydwen for a complete assessment by Knight Captain Cade. I know the fight is personal for you, Scribe, but if you can’t handle it than I’m going to assign Haylen to it and put you on ship duty.”

“Elder,” Danse spoke before Sparrow could. “The Institute is definitely laying some kind of trail for the Scribe. If we pull her off ground duty, that trail will go cold.”

“Perhaps. I’ll make a final decision when you return to the Prydwen. Scribe Finlay is a unique resource, not to be wasted.”

“Of course, Elder,” Danse acquiesced as Sparrow’s lips pursed.

“Now what’s this about the Minutemen? I thought they were all dead.”

“Not quite. Preston Garvey of the Commonwealth Minutemen.” The handsome dark-skinned man spoke up. “In return for setting up some trade routes between my people and yours, the Paladin agreed to lend a hand now and then as his duties allowed it.”

“We have the area from Nordhagen to Cambridge Police Station secure,” Danse said quickly. Maxson accepted almost any decision if you could justify it. “But we don’t have the resources to hold and protect the entire Commonwealth. And once the Minutemen are back on their feet, Colonel Garvey tells me that there’s a few tricks up their sleeve at their old base that he’s happy to use against the Institute.”

“Danse and Sparrow made it clear that your territory is your territory, Elder Maxson,” Preston added. “In the Commonwealth, you can never have too many friends, and neighbours should lend a hand to each other.”

Maxson made another thoughtful noise. “The Commonwealth needs our permanent presence here,” the Elder observed. “But Danse is correct: we’ve dedicated as much as we can spare to this mission and anything that spares our resources – as long as it doesn’t compromise our mission – is helpful.”

“I made it clear that military technology is a no-go but we can help set up basic defences and give medical treatment,” Sparrow said quietly.

“Basic medical treatment unless they supply the meds and chems,” Maxson insisted. “I know you mean well, Scribe, but we can’t spare medicine unless it directly advances the mission.”

“Yes, Elder,” Sparrow said, tone utterly flat. Danse noted that Preston didn’t look too happy and even Cait was unimpressed.

“Good. I want you two here by the day after tomorrow.”

“Can I bring my Mr Handy Codsworth aboard?” Sparrow asked quietly. “He’s trained in all aspects of the household from cooking to handling children to growing crops and I know how to keep up his maintenance.”

“Don’t push it, Scribe,” Maxson warned acerbically. “You’re on thin ice with your actions in Goodneighbour and only the fact that you were under extreme emotional pressure has kept you out of the brig.”

Sparrow turned towards the robot, whose three eyes were already drooping. “Head back to Sanctuary, please,” she told him. “They’ll need you there.”

“Yes, mum,” he said reluctantly and Danse found himself feeling for the construct. Codsworth had as much personality as Nick Valentine despite both of them being artificial creations.

“Any other orders, Elder?” Danse asked, taking up the thread of the conversation.

“No, Paladin. Don’t be late – I want to be updated on the Institute situation. Maxson out.” And the radio went dead.

“Arsehole,” Cait said flatly.

Danse stepped out of the power armour he’d worn. “Can you take this back for me?” he requested of Preston, who had a frown on his face.

“Sure,” the Minuteman agreed. “Paladin, you’re always welcome to join the Minutemen. I’m a competent commander in a firefight but you… someone like you could rebuild us, make us better than what we were before.”

“My life is the Brotherhood,” Danse answered. “They saved me from life in Rivet City and made me the soldier I am today.”

“Damn,” Preston said regretfully. “Offer’s always open for you and Sparrow. You’re good people, even if your Elder leaves much to be desired.”

“Elder Maxson has been fighting since the age of twelve,” Danse explained, feeling the need to justify his friend’s brusque attitude. “He’s been an Elder since sixteen.”

“Give a man a hammer young enough, he’ll see every problem as a nail,” the Minuteman observed sadly. “You know, this means we’ll just be trading food and basic supplies with you – no weapons, no medications, no scrap.”

“I understand, though I certainly hope you’ll tend anyone who gets hurt fighting for you,” Danse said.

“Only if I’m sure the Brotherhood squad would do the same for my people,” Preston answered as he turned away. “I’ll go let Tenpines Bluff know the raiders are handled. Thanks for your help, Danse, Sparrow.”

“You’re welcome.” Danse watched the Minuteman leave and sighed. The Brotherhood needed good men like that but Elder Maxson had a point about resources.

“I’ll escort Codsworth home,” Cait offered, cheerful after some mayhem. “Be a shame if some raiders tried to use him for target practice.”

“I would welcome the company, Miss Cait,” the robot replied. “Do you know when you’ll return, Miss Sparrow?”

“I don’t,” she said sadly.

“Take care of yourself and send frequent word to Sanctuary, if you could,” he requested of Sparrow.

“I’ll try,” she promised.

“Thank you, mum.” Codsworth looked at Danse. “Please take care of her, Master Danse.”

“I’ll do my best,” he promised.

When they left, he turned to Sparrow. “We might as well head back to the Prydwen,” he said.

She nodded, looking unhappy. “Guess I’d better face the music and hope they’ll let me go looking for Virgil.”

“Indeed.” Danse headed for the doors. “Let’s go.”

…

Maxson was standing before the windows on the command deck as always when the two of them entered the room. Sparrow resisted the urge to reach for Danse’s hand as the Elder turned around, expression grim.

“Report,” was all he said and so they did.

When it was done, the Elder looked between them. “The goods at the Corvega factory were worth the detour, Paladin. I trust that the Scribe has put her past to rest and is ready to face the future?”

“I’m right here, Elder,” Sparrow said on the curt side of polite.

“I noticed, Scribe, but I’m not sure I can trust your emotional stability at the moment after everything you’ve been through,” Maxson answered, still looking at Danse. “That’s why I’m asking your sponsor.”

“I believe so,” Danse, always full of faith in her, answered.

“Good. I’ll take it into account when I make my final decision.” Maxson crossed his arms. “Danse, you’re going after this Virgil. Bring him back if possible – anyone who leaves the Institute is a resource. If not, bring what information you can.”

“Of course, Elder,” Danse said automatically.

“Scribe, we have a situation that needs looking into involving logistics. Hangman’s Alley sent their first tithe and Nordhagen Beach wisely agreed to our terms,” the Elder said. “However, supplies are going missing at the Airport. While Danse looks for Virgil, you’ll be looking into that.”

“Yes, Elder,” the Vault Dweller said flatly. How dare he think that she was incapable of going in search of Virgil?  
“I’ll be frank,” the Elder continued. “You are one of the very few examples of non-irradiated humanity around. Cade also noted you’re O-. That makes you a universal donor. I can’t risk you turning into a ghoul while traipsing in the Glowing Sea because you can’t move around in power armour.”

Danse winced. “I hate to say this, Scribe, but he has a point. You, in yourself, are a resource.”

“I hope I’ll be saved for emergency blood transfusions,” Sparrow said bitterly. “I’d make for a poor blood bag on a regular basis.”

“Once a month should be enough for blood donations,” Maxson said, waving his hand. “Once Danse is back, we can decide what happens then. The Institute is still our priority.”

“Yes, Elder,” Sparrow said mechanically.

“Then you’re dismissed, Scribe. Clean yourself up and report to Knight-Captain Cade for the health assessment.”

She nodded tightly and stalked away, not particularly happy with the Elder at the moment but unable to argue.

…

Arthur watched the Scribe stalk out, back stiff with outrage, and reminded himself that she was fundamentally a civilian forced into a military role. It was why she’d been assigned to the Scribes in the first place, though he’d trusted Danse’s judgment in keeping her alive while they tracked her son’s kidnappers. The new scar on her face – bullet graze across the left cheek that was still pink against the paler patch just below the eye – showed just flawed that judgment might be. Sparrow Finlay was a precious resource in this irradiated world and he couldn’t let the Paladin jeopardise that.

When he turned around to face Danse, the grim glint in the man’s brown eyes said it all. The Paladin was more than fond of her – was perhaps in love with her even – and that could very well compromise their mission in the Commonwealth. Maxson had plans to settle in the area once the Institute was destroyed, develop a new Enclave of the Brotherhood to match Lost Hills and the Citadel, and provide the ruins of Boston with the guidance they so obviously needed.

“What is between you?” he asked bluntly.

“She is my friend and subordinate,” Danse replied – evasively, for him.

“Let me rephrase that question, Paladin – what are your feelings for her?”

The man’s jaw set stubbornly and Maxson sighed, knowing he had his answer. As Elder, he had final say on all unions between Brotherhood members, and he would have to use it now.

“It’s not going to happen, Paladin. The Elders at Lost Hills are already after me to choose a wife but I would like to bring in some fresh blood, as it were. Sparrow Finlay is intelligent, capable and diplomatic, all fine qualities for an Elder’s wife to have.” Maxson clasped his hands behind his back and eyed Danse, whose expression was subtly but surely darkening.

“I’ve said nothing because she’s mourning her lost husband,” the Paladin said through gritted teeth.

“And I recognise that. I’m giving her some downtime to grieve and become properly familiar with the Brotherhood,” Arthur assured him. “Paladin, there are a dozen women worthy of – and wanting – your attentions. I’m sorry, but Scribe Finlay cannot be one of them.”

“Will she get a say in this or have you decided for her?” Danse asked flatly.

“I’m hoping she’ll have the wisdom to understand why this is necessary.” Arthur sighed inwardly. He didn’t want to do this to one of his oldest friends but better now than later, when Sparrow might have developed feelings for him.

“Very well,” Danse said tightly. “May I go?”

“Yes,” Maxson said. He let the lack of honorific go this time.

The Paladin walked out and Maxson shook his head. Why was it that no one had problems with hard decisions until they were affected by them?

He sighed aloud this time and walked over to the whiskey. Hopefully she would pass Cade’s tests and be ready to move on. The Brotherhood’s future in the Commonwealth depended on it. And… it would be good to have something for himself that _he_ chose, not the Lost Hills Elders.

…

Initiate Clarke looked ready to piss himself in fear as he was frogmarched by an irate Sparrow to Lancer-Captain Kells. Given the Brotherhood’s stance on ghouls, the young man had every right to be, but she had little sympathy for him. Pissing away supplies feeding feral ghouls? She only didn’t shoot him because Kells deserved the pleasure.

Once the renegade was in Kells’ hands and a new torso for Danse’s power armour handed over, Sparrow went to track the Paladin down. He’d been avoiding her since their return to the Prydwen these past three days and she wanted to know why. Especially since Maxson and Knight-Captain Cade were acting a bit strange around her.

She cornered him in the private quarters given to Senior Paladins. In light of his service and recent trauma, Brandis had the other room now another Paladin – Ronan – was assigned to Cambridge. The old man was probably in the mess hall talking with some of the other veterans while he recovered.

“Got something for you,” Sparrow announced, startling the Paladin, who was shirtless and trimming his close-cropped hair before the mirror.

“Sparrow! I mean, Scribe, what are you doing here?” Danse looked around nervously – nervously, Danse! – as he turned around to reveal a scarred, muscular chest that Sparrow found herself admiring.

“Presenting you with a nice new torso for your power armour,” she said, holding out the heavy metal breastplate. “Kells gave it to me for finding out who was stealing those supplies at the Airport.”

“I… Thank you,” Danse said, looking down as he took it. “You shouldn’t come here again.”

“Why the hell not?” Sparrow demanded.

“Because Elder Maxson has deemed our relationship unnecessarily close for commanding officer and subordinate,” the Paladin said unhappily. “We’re being reassigned to other squads.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Sparrow found herself saying in disgust. “If this is because I got drunk in Goodneighbour and you’re in trouble for it, I’ll go up there and take the blame I deserve.”

She still didn’t know Cade’s findings but having to speak to Doctor Quinlan once a week – and donate blood every month – was going to be onerous. She felt like a walking blood bag, perhaps with a uterus attached after the Knight-Captain’s personal questions about her fertility.

“It isn’t that.” Danse closed his eyes, as if in pain. “We’re too close, Sparrow, and… No. Just please leave. Once I have information from Virgil, I’ll return and present it to you and the Elder.”

His behaviour – and that of Maxson and Cade – fell into place. And Sparrow was _pissed._

“It will be a cold day in hell before I become a broodmare for Arthur fucking Maxson,” she hissed. “I can take a lot of shit but not that.”

Danse opened his eyes, turning a pained, pleading gaze on her. “I don’t like it either,” he admitted miserably. “But Elder Maxson can give you something resembling the life you had before the bombs fell. And it is a great honour to be an Elder’s spouse – his intentions are honourable, I swear.”

Sparrow screwed her eyes shut as they burned with tears. She was certain Danse cared for her deeply – but his honour and love of the Brotherhood was killing him. “I guess leaving and joining the Minutemen isn’t an option?” she asked helplessly.

“For neither of us,” Danse confirmed, his voice hopeless. “Sparrow, the Brotherhood and its mission comes first. For me. For Elder Maxson. We ask nothing of others what we wouldn’t ask of ourselves.”

“So you’d rip your heart out for the Brotherhood?”

“Yes. Not gladly… but yes.” Danse was resigned. “Arranged unions, especially between those of the Lost Hills and Citadel families, are common in the Brotherhood. It’s a huge honour to be considered worthy of that upper echelon, Sparrow, and it isn’t just because you’re the healthiest woman on this ship. Your own talents played a huge part in the Elder’s decision.”

“How long before he was going to tell me of this, ah, honour?” she asked bitterly.

“He wanted to give you some more time to grieve for Nate and become more familiar with the Brotherhood,” the Paladin said unhappily.

“How fucking nice of him.” Something twisted in her when she opened her eyes – the pain on Danse’s face. That selfless sonuva would sacrifice himself for the Brotherhood and the Elders would honour him with some fancy plaque or bulletin or something else equally useless.

She stepped in close and rose on her toes to kiss Danse.

The Paladin’s huge arms wrapped around her, lifting her effortlessly to press her against the steel wall of his bedroom, hands sliding under her legs to anchor her. Stubble rasped against her skin as lips, firm yet gentle, parted to meet hers. Sparrow drank in the ardent kiss as a thirsty Wastelander did gallons of purified water, tongue twining with Danse’s until they were both breathless.

His lips were halfway down her neck, licking and sucking with the occasional graze of teeth, before he stopped with a harshly ragged inhalation. “I can’t. Sparrow, for the Brotherhood’s sake… I can’t. Though I wish to God I could.”

Danse gently set her down, regret and… yes, love twisting his face. “Go, please,” he begged.

She looked at him, tears in her eyes, and fled. Love, like everything else, meant nothing in the Wasteland because no such feeling could survive in the ruins of the world.


	7. Duty First

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paladin Danse has always put his duty first, even though it breaks his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, implied drug addiction/use, and grief/mourning.

_Her lips weren’t sugar-sweet, not like he’d imagined them. No, the taste was more complex, like some half-imagined flavour from an exotic place. She fit in his arms as he’d known she would though…_

Danse swore as the dream shattered with the sound of reveille. He’d made Sparrow leave before he dishonoured the Brotherhood any further – and cursed himself every waking moment for it. All the Paladin could offer her was a fleeting love before he died in a hail of bullets; Elder Maxson could keep her safe, give her something resembling the life she had before. She had every reason to be angry about Arthur’s plans as she hadn’t been consulted, but Sparrow was an intelligent, competent woman. Once the heartache lessened, she would understand and rise up to the duty of being an Elder’s wife with authority in her own right. If anything happened to Arthur Maxson, she would be the supreme leader of the Brotherhood in the Commonwealth so long as the Lost Hills Elders approved of her. And given their preference for strong, intelligent leaders and healthy genetics, short of Sparrow overseeing some kind of disaster, they would permit it.

He pulled himself out of bed and donned a fresh uniform. Tomorrow he would head for the Glowing Sea and find the scientist Virgil for the secret of the Institute’s teleportation. Today was a rest day with officer’s rations – Maxson had approved it, no doubt as some sort of compensation for having to be harsh over him and Sparrow.

Danse had never dreamed of hating Maxson before but as the Elder outlined his plans – nothing but the fucking best for the Maxsons! – the Paladin had fantasised about punching his teeth down his throat. And that was why he needed to leave, because the Elder was the Brotherhood’s greatest hope, and he’d chosen Sparrow to help him carry that burden.

Proctor Ingram had made improvements to his T-60 armour, including lead lining and the torso that Sparrow gave him. When asked about it by the chief of the Scribes, Danse had said it was a thank you gift from Sparrow and left it at that. The legless, frame-confined Proctor knew better than to ask questions.

Breakfast was Sugar Bomb mash, grilled radroach and baked tatos. Danse ate mechanically, recalling the time Sparrow managed to find him some Salisbury Steak and how she refused when he belatedly offered her a bit. There was a story, one he’d never know now.

He was halfway through breakfast when Elder Maxson appeared, walking over to Danse and taking a seat at his table. Intimidation wasn’t Arthur’s style, so there had to be another reason for the Elder to be joining him.

“Paladin,” he greeted formally as one of the Initiates on mess duty brought over a mug of Nuka Cola and plate of food for the Elder. Aside from a better grade of whiskey than the other officers, Maxson ate as they did, not too proud to hold himself above his people.

“Elder,” Danse said in between bites of food, wondering if he could be sent down to the airport earlier than planned with the excuse of testing his power armour mods.

“I just wanted you to know how honoured I am to have a soldier of your conviction and loyalty in my service,” Maxson continued before taking a sip of his cola. “I’ve given orders to Proctor Teagan to outfit you with a superior laser rifle before you head out.”

_Paying me off with a better gun – do you think I’m that fucking simple?_ Danse thought bitterly as he nodded in simulated gratitude. “Thank you, Elder. You honour me.”

“No, you honour me.” Arthur sounded sincere – had he discovered what happened last night, knowing that while Danse had tasted the forbidden fruit, he’d pushed it away for the good of the Brotherhood? The Elder could forgive a lapse in judgment so long as the mistake was immediately rectified.

A flash of colour caught his eye – Sparrow appeared, took one look at the two men sitting together, and pointedly ignored them to sit at Proctor Ingram’s table.

At Arthur’s raised eyebrow, Danse chose his answer carefully. “When she stopped off with a thank you gift for me last night, I told her she should leave, and she put several things together, Elder. You _know_ that it’s impossible to keep a secret from the woman.”

“From _any_ woman, Paladin Danse, from _any_ woman.” Arthur ate a chunk of grilled radroach before asking, “How did she take it?”

For a moment, Danse was sorely tempted to repeat Sparrow’s exact words, but she didn’t need that grief. Instead he said, “She wasn’t happy that such a decision had been made without her input. But I’m hoping she’ll see the necessity of it.”

“I’d hoped to tell her but I suppose you and Cade are as subtle as bricks,” the Elder sighed into his coffee mug. “I’ll try to court her, as much as I can, Paladin Danse. You needn’t think I intend to just use her as a broodmare.”

Danse made a vaguely affirmative noise and buried his nose in his food. It was either silence or punching the esteemed Elder in the face. He needed to leave the Prydwen before something regrettable happened.

“I’ll report to Proctors Teagan and Ingram and head down a day earlier,” he eventually said. “I intend to stock up on some Rad-X and RadAway in Diamond City before I head southwest.”

“Understood and permitted,” Maxson said magnanimously. “The sooner we have that information, the sooner we can take the fight to the Institute.”

“Of course, Elder.” Danse offered a curt salute and stood up. When Sparrow glanced in his direction, he offered her a curt nod of farewell before heading to the underdeck for necessary supplies.

His duty to the Brotherhood was going to be the death of him. But he already knew that.

…

Of all the damn people Nick Valentine expected in his office, Paladin Danse of the Brotherhood of Steel was somewhere between Mayor McDonough and the Director of the Institute. The man was incognito, which for him meant reinforced combat armour over military greens with an army beret covering his tousled black hair and patrolman sunglasses hiding his brown eyes. His expression was grim and the synth detective began to suspect the worst.

“What happened to Sparrow?” he asked softly. That was a good woman, one who’d been like a niece to the detective who granted him his memories and formed his personality.

“She’s fine. Assigned to the Prydwen,” Danse said too quickly. Given that the man was halfway in love with her, Nick suspected some kind of breakup.

“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely. “But what brings you to this old bucket of rust and bolts?”

“I’m heading into the Glowing Sea and I need someone who’s immune to the radiation,” Danse answered flatly. “I don’t much _like_ you, but you’re good at finding things and talking to people.”

“You’re not on my Christmas card list yourself, just so you know,” Nick observed dryly. “Why you and not Sparrow?”

“Because Elder Maxson has no wish to risk a woman of her good health and relative lack of radiation exposure in the Glowing Sea,” the Paladin said tightly. “I have had access to the same information and so I can be spared. She cannot.”

“Needs himself a broodmare, does he?” Nick asked shrewdly. “And just what does the grieving Mrs. Finlay think about this?”

“She’s not happy. But she’s smart and the Elder’s intentions are honourable.” Danse’s voice was flat. “He can give her a better life than I can.”

“I don’t recall Sparrow Finlay being that shallow,” Nick murmured.

“She isn’t. But I hope she’ll take the opportunity to affect some real change in the Commonwealth.” Danse’s tone was almost mechanical now. “Look, I need your help, Valentine. I don’t know if you’re an Institute plant in some sick mind game by those twisted bastards or genuinely escaped and have free will of your own, but you’re the only one immune to radiation amongst our colleagues who I can marginally trust. If nothing else, you might be able to get some answers from an Institute scientist yourself.”

The detective sighed. Danse had a point and the chance to stick one in the Institute’s craw was a tempting prospect. “Fine, but only if we do it my way.”

At Danse’s raised eyebrow, Nick smiled. “You’re obvious in that armour, Danse, and if word gets around a Brother’s walking with a synth – you’d be in deep shit.”

“I have a spare suit of armour at Sanctuary,” Danse said slowly. “It came from a raider.”

“Hmm, better. I heard a rumour about the Minutemen being back up there,” Nick mused.

“Sparrow and I helped the last of them and they’ve formed a tentative alliance with the Brotherhood,” Danse said quietly. “Preston Garvey is a fine man.”

“He is indeed,” Nick agreed. “So, you’ll wear the unmarked power armour?”

Danse nodded reluctantly, showing that there was some intelligence beneath that military exterior. “I will.”

“Then we’re off to the Glowing Sea. God have mercy on us all.”

…

Preston Garvey greeted the duo with a big smile. “Paladin Danse and the famous Nick Valentine! How can I help you two?”

“I need that armour,” Danse told the Minuteman as he looked over the ruins of Sanctuary. “We’re off to the Glowing Sea.”

“Of course,” Preston readily agreed. “How’s Sparrow? I hope Maxson wasn’t too hard on her.”

“She’s assigned to the Prydwen for the foreseeable future,” Danse said.

“Yes, because Elder Maxson wants a broodmare,” Nick added sarcastically. Danse regretted telling the persuasive synth that.

The Minuteman raised an eyebrow. “Arranged marriages aren’t unusual but they’re usually mutually agreed on by the spouses,” he noted. “I take it…?”

“Sparrow’s smart. And she’d make a good Elder’s wife.” If he kept on saying it, maybe he could believe it. He believed in Sparrow’s abilities, of course, but he needed to believe it was for the best.

“Mmhm,” was all Preston said. “Well, feel free to stay the night. Sturges can mod your power armour for greater radiation protection and tight a few screws on Nick if he needs it.”

“I expect the mechanic to buy me dinner before he gets touchy-feely,” Nick said dryly.

The leader of the Minutemen snickered. “Sturges is a complete gentleman, I assure you.”

“I hope so.” Nick tilted his head, eerie yellow eyes focusing on Danse. “You going to be alright?”

“I’ll be fine,” Danse answered absently, looking around for Codsworth and Cait. He didn’t much look forward to any explanations they’d want.

They wound up sleeping in the nearest intact house to the bridge, Preston wanting to avoid awkward questions, and Danse found that Sturges was a genius when it came to tending power armour the next morning. “The Scribes would love to have you,” he noted as he moved around in the unmarked, lead-lined suit.

“Thanks, but your Brotherhood sounds like a bag of dicks,” Sturges drawled. “You should join the Minutemen. More freedom and less assholes.”

Danse refrained from commenting. Sturges had done him a favour.

“Thank you,” he said instead, feeling like himself in power armour again.

“No problems. Owed you one, so this job’s for free.” Sturges smiled and then turned to Nick. “Does a shot of motor oil count as dinner, Mr Valentine?”

The synth grunted as his joints were tightened by the mechanic. “Only if it’s premium, Mr Sturges, only if it’s premium.”

“Aww, I got none,” Sturges sighed. “Anything else loose?”

“No,” Nick said. “Thanks.”

They left as the sun rose, waving farewell to Preston. It would be a long walk to the Glowing Sea and beyond.

But for Sparrow, he could do this. Even if his heart broke in the process.

…

Virgil was a super mutant, one who’d managed to retain his intellect. Nick stopped Danse from automatically shooting the scientist and quizzed him about the Institute. The information produced was… astonishing. And frightening.

“Kill a Courser. Sure, what could go wrong?” Nick asked dryly.

“Plenty, but it’s your only way,” the green-skinned scientist retorted. “Get me the courser code and I should be able to make some plans. Of course, once you’re in the Institute, you’ll probably die.”

“Make the plans,” Danse snapped. “We’ll take care of the Courser.”

Coursers were built for one purpose – killing.

But so was Paladin Danse.

Nick focused on getting the girl – the synth – trapped behind the door as the two fought. The Courser was fast, merciless and made ample use of Stealth Boys while Paladin Danse did things in power armour that most men weren’t flexible enough to do not wearing some. When the settlers in Sanctuary told Nick about the fight with the deathclaw, the synth detective had been certain they exaggerated Danse’s prowess.

The old synth was never afraid to admit he was wrong, especially when Paladin Danse literally tore the Courser’s head off after breaking its spine. That would make for a hell of a present for Virgil. Maybe he could give the skull as a gift for Elder Maxson at his wedding.

Jenny ran away once freed, no doubt looking for the Railroad. Hopefully Dr Amari could decode the Courser’s chip and bring Sparrow one step closer to finding her son. Assuming Maxson let her keep the boy.

“Remind me to stay on your good side,” Nick said dryly as Danse tore the chip out of the Courser’s head by the simple expedient of pulling it through an eye socket.

“If you need reminding, I’m doing my job wrong,” the Paladin shot back. “So now what?”

“We go to Dr Amari again. Hopefully this session will be less traumatic.” Nick turned for the door, ignoring the executed Gunners. “You going to tell the Brotherhood about the goodies here?”

“I have another mission to focus on,” Danse said tightly as he dropped the head and put the chip in a special little compartment of his armour. “Valentine?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for your help. I don’t think I could have done it without you.”

Valentine found himself giving the Paladin a tight smile. “You’re welcome, Danse. Give Sparrow my regards?”

“If I’m permitted to, I will,” Danse said bleakly before heading for the powered-up elevator.

Nick watched him leave, feeling for the poor bastard. The next time he saw Sparrow, he was going to have some words with her, because Danse was too good a man to let go.

…

Danse returned from the Glowing Sea with rough-drawn plans and a promise to try and find Virgil’s cure. He knew that when Sparrow made it into the Institute, she’d look for the serum, and he owed the scientist that much. After travelling with Nick Valentine for two weeks and trading acidic barbs, he began to believe that the synth was free of Institute tampering… and understand why the Scribe trusted him so much.

Proctor Ingram looked over the plans and whistled. “Damn, that classical station is their relay signal?”

“It is, Proctor,” Danse confirmed. He’d picked up his usual armour at Hangman’s Alley and it felt like a burden for the first time in his life.

“Well, Sparrow and I can get to building this while you take a well-deserved break,” the Proctor said with a smile.

“Thank you,” Danse said politely, wondering if he should transfer back to Cambridge because he wasn’t sure he could cope with seeing Maxson court the Vault Dweller. Then he recalled that he had critical information – especially about his promise to Virgil – that she needed to know.

Ingram dismissed him and Danse headed for his quarters. Why did his feet drag with every step when this was his home, his vocation?

He literally ran into Sparrow just outside his quarters. The Scribe staggered back and dropped a clipboard with schematics on the ground as Danse blinked, trying to make sense of the woman before him.

Gone was the simple bun at the nape of the neck, a more elaborate upswept style with bangs like Dr Amari’s framed her face while black outlined her brown eyes and blood-red coloured her lips.

“Paladin. I see your mission was a success.” Her words were cool and formal, a long way from the flashes of humour, temper and affection that warmed her speech once.

“Yes,” he responded, trying and failing to reach the same level of coolness. He’d told her to leave for her sake and that of the Brotherhood. Elder Maxson would be better for her. Right?

The lips pursed and for a moment he saw the fragile, vulnerable soul that he knew so well. “Thank you,” she said softly.

_Leave with me and to hell with the Brotherhood._

“You’re welcome, Scribe,” he said before walking past.

Duty first. As always.


	8. Soul of Steel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur Maxson was born to command and fight. He would remove the strings that bind him and prove himself his own man for the sake of the Brotherhood. Sparrow Finlay is the perfect consort. What he asks of her, he has always asked of himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for implied misogyny and mentions of PSTD, postnatal depression, death, child neglect and abuse, violence involving a minor, fantastic racism, implied drug use/addiction and grief/mourning. Canon divergence as Liberty Reprimed is being done by Danse while From Within and Institutionalised are Sparrow’s problems.

Arthur Maxson had been groomed for command and combat since the day of his birth. The stench of power armour grease was the fragrance of his mother, the ozone burn of a laser the scent of his father. Sent away for his own safety by a mother he never knew and forged into a weapon by a good man and his daughter, he killed his first man at eleven and at thirteen stood amidst the bloody remains of his patrol and killed a half-dead deathclaw after it wounded him grievously. Last of his line, guided to greatness by the Elders of Lost Hills, he reclaimed the Citadel and the Capital Wasteland by sixteen and was raised to High Elder, and four years later sailed into the Commonwealth to destroy the Institute and set up a new command post for the Brotherhood of Steel.

He asked for nothing from his soldiers that he didn’t ask from himself. Aside from a finer ration of whiskey, he ate what they ate and drank what they drank. His body already ached from the multitude of scars collected in more battles than he could recall and Knight Captain Cade was worried the stress he was under would kill him before forty.

The Elders of Lost Hills were dropping hints about him wedding a woman from their ranks. Older, wiser and far more bitter, he could see the strings they’d attached to him, the cult they’d tried to form around him, and would see them cut. His men were utterly loyal and he controlled more resources than the other Elders. If the Brotherhood was to thrive, it would be in the east and he would lay the groundwork for its future before he left this mortal coil.

To that end, he needed a wife from the Commonwealth or Capital Wasteland – healthy, fertile, intelligent, competent and loyal. So he opened up recruitment to the locals and unless they were blatantly suited to the rank of Knight or Paladin, sent the women to the non-combatant roles of Lancer and Scribe. He thought of Sentinel Lyons, who died too young from Lost Hills’ machinations, and swore that no bride of his would undergo such a fate. She needed to be strong enough to carry on his work once she died.

When Paladin Danse, the soldier that taught him the mini-gun and how to scrap a pipe pistol properly, recruited a Vault Dweller by name of Sparrow Finlay – and she had the initiative to send a report alongside the Paladin and Haylen – Arthur knew he’d found the right candidate. True, she’d lost her husband and was being played by the Institute for their own warped reasons, but he knew that she would understand the need and join him. To that end, he’d dropped hints to Danse to keep her alive and healthy until he could propose to her.

Sarah Lyons had been beautiful, her hair like spun sunlight and skin like Brahmin cream where it wasn’t scarred. Arthur enshrined her in the memory of his childhood and planned to avenge her when Lost Hills fell apart, begging him for help against the NCR, and he would only come to save the old records and relics.

Sparrow Finlay was lovely in a different manner; the scar that split her mouth and chin told a story, the birthmark or healed burn scar under her left eye another. Her skin was tanned, her hair a medium brown with a copper tinge in sunlight and those brown eyes haunted. Hers was a life of struggles and sorrows, much as his was, though she still had turmoil with legacies from the pre-War life.

Arthur didn’t know if he could love as civilians did but he would try to be a good man to the next Lady Maxson.

When he found out that she was recovering from a chem addiction and that Danse let her go to a notorious den of ghouls and chem dealers, he could have killed the Paladin. Her public drunkenness permitted him to keep her on board the Prydwen and send Danse after this Virgil.

Then the Paladin had to open his big mouth and reveal Arthur’s plans to Sparrow. The Elder saw the way Danse looked at the Scribe and encouraged her emotional dependence on him. That needed to be ended, swiftly, though Danse’s revelations meant he could speak frankly with Sparrow on what was expected of her as Lady Maxson. He didn’t want to push her too fast – she still mourned for the late Nate Finlay – but he needed to sire an heir and soon as the war against the Institute heated up.

To that end, he scheduled a dinner after dispatching Danse to the Glowing Sea. He had to give the man credit – as soon as he realised what was going on, he backed off. Unhappily, but he put the Brotherhood first, and so Arthur wasn’t forced to do something about it. He still valued Danse and well… Sparrow was an attractive woman in her way. He couldn’t fault the man for falling in love with her.

Knight-Captain Cade had reported she was fit and ready for childbearing. That was good. Once they had a bead on the Institute, he could take a little downtime during the preparation for the final assault and arrange the wedding and bedding, crude as it might sound.

Maxson sighed as the door to his quarters rattled with a sharp knock. When he opened it, Sparrow was standing there, clad in a pink floral dress that looked pre-War in design, her hair upswept in a different style and a hint of makeup – red lips and black around the eyes – on her face.

“Elder,” she said formally.

“Please, call me Arthur,” he insisted as he moved aside to let her in. He knew she was a sensible woman.

Dinner was no different to what was served in the officers’ mess: Salisbury Steak, tato fries, grilled corn and Fancy Lads Snack Cakes for dessert. When Sparrow went to push the meat aside with her fork, Arthur frowned at her. “You need protein,” he reminded her.

“I need it or does my sacred uterus require it?” she asked with a hint of acid to her tone.

Arthur tried not to sigh. Sparrow had every right to be resentful of the way she’d been removed from active duty with Danse, because he was fairly certain the Paladin hadn’t told her how he felt. “I need _you_ as much as I need your fertility,” he admitted frankly. “And this is why…”

Purging the doubts and troubles that burdened him was a relief so profound that it was almost orgasmic. Sparrow listened attentively as he revealed everything: his plans for the Brotherhood, his hopes for the future, the forces that had shaped him into the High Elder he was today. He bared himself in a way he hadn’t since meeting the Lone Wanderer so many years ago, when he was still permitted a measure of innocence.

When he was done talking, she ate the steak, silent in the face of her responsibilities. Arthur regretted that getting to know her needed to be rushed – but the Institute didn’t allow for leisure.

He followed the line of her neck briefly before jerking his eyes up back to her face. Tonight, he knew instinctively, was too soon.

Instead he decorously kissed her farewell on the cheek, noting the slight tremble of her body, and wished her goodnight.

Barring interference from outside forces, this campaign would go as he wished it.

…

“It’s fairly obvious, Elder,” Proctor Ingram said carefully as she studied her supreme commander. Since Danse had been unceremoniously treated like an errand boy and sent on missions that weren’t worthy for a Paladin of his calibre, the High Elder had put a guard on Field Scribe Finlay like a dog with its only bone. Normally, she would have chalked it up to an ambitious, intelligent Scribe climbing the ranks as some did, trading lovers as she rose in station, and sympathised with Paladin Danse over a bottle of beer or two. But there was a subtle reserve in Sparrow’s behaviour around Maxson, a shield of cool formality held up protectively against the world that indicated the decision may not have entirely been the Scribe’s own.

“It’s not happening,” Maxson said flatly.

“The Institute is trying to manipulate the Field Scribe for some reason. That means we need to send her into the lion’s den to acquire both the information we need and the specialist we need for our project.” They needed time to repair and repower Liberty Prime… and they needed Madison Li to do both.

“The Proctor’s right,” Sparrow said, looking away from the frown on Arthur’s face. “They want me for some reason and so I have to go.”

The High Elder looked around the briefing room and saw agreement written on the faces of all four Proctors, Knight-Captain Cade, Lancer-Captain Kells and even old Brandis, who was deemed ready for light duty at Senior Paladin levels as Danse was securing materials in the Glowing Sea for the Liberty Prime project.

Ingram took a deep breath and continued. “Your _plans_ for the Field Scribe are clear, Elder Maxson. Let’s see how she can handle sweet-talking Madison Li back to our order, hmm?”

Of the commanding officers, only Cade looked unsurprised, though Teagan looked triumphant and Quinlan sighed, surreptitiously sneaking a handful of caps to their colleague. The others were momentarily startled before their game faces came back. Arthur Maxson was the leader of the Brotherhood of Steel, a legend in his own time and the last of a bloodline with souls of steel. A relatively non-irradiated Vault Dweller with extensive experience in negotiation and investigation, proven fertility and loyalty to the Brotherhood – if she wasn’t working on the molecular relay with Ingram, she was poring over the Litany and learning how the order’s politics worked – with no ties to the Lost Hills Elders was an excellent choice for consort.

It was just a damned shame that Danse needed to be treated like Brahmin dung for the good of the Brotherhood. Before things became apparent today, Ingram would have placed bets on Danse and Sparrow pairing off because the affection between the two was obvious.

Arthur actually ground his teeth, momentarily acting like the young man who’d just been thwarted that he was, before nodding tightly. “Very well, Proctor. Your argument is impeccable.”

He turned around to Sparrow. “Your orders are clear – enter the Institute, gain what information you can, and persuade Madison Li to return to the Brotherhood of Steel. When you have succeeded, you will return and be formally awarded the title of Lady Maxson after our marriage. There will be no need to wait once you have proven your worthiness to the Proctors and senior officers. Understood?”

“Understood, Elder Maxson,” Sparrow replied in a flat voice.

“Excellent, you are dismissed. I want you to rest and eat properly. This will be a difficult mission.”

The soon-to-be bride of the Elder saluted and walked off as Ingram and Quinlan exchanged looks. The next few weeks were going to be… interesting.

…

As he expected, Sparrow performed her mission in exemplary fashion, returning with a holotape full of encrypted information Proctor Quinlan got to decoding immediately and a subdued, repentant Madison Li. Arthur made a show of publicly forgiving the woman for her technical desertion – Project Purity had been hard on everyone – and set her to work on Liberty Prime. Once the weapon was ready, the Institute would be destroyed, root and branch.

Out of compassion for the loyal but heartbroken Danse, Maxson decided to hold the wedding while he was away. Sparrow had flatly revealed that her missing son Shaun had been corrupted by the Institute and risen to take command; the game he’d played was a warped attempt at a family reunion. Arthur privately vowed that he would avenge the Vault Dweller personally.

Two weeks after Sparrow’s return to the Prydwen, Proctor Quinlan called Maxson to his office for a private briefing on the information from the Institute. When it was revealed that Danse was a synth inserted into the Brotherhood to bring them down from within, everything became poisonously clear.

When he went to confront Sparrow with the news – she was friendly with that wretched synth in Diamond City so it was possible that Danse convinced her he was a renegade synth at the very least – she was speaking with Madison Li and Proctor Ingram about Project Liberty Prime. At his accusation of knowing Danse was a synth, the utter blank shock on all three women’s faces was proof enough that it was news to them. Arthur felt relieved that his wife to be was as ignorant as the best minds of the Brotherhood.

“It needs to die,” he decreed flatly.

Ingram, who’d considered Danse a friend, looked troubled. “You have proof?” she asked, delicately implying things he didn’t much care for.

“Quinlan and Cade matched DNA from the missing synth M7-97 to Paladin Danse,” the Elder explained flatly, letting the implication slide because the Proctor was speaking from shock. “It’s a synth agent designed to bring us down.”

Sparrow’s loyalty to Danse compelled her to take up the argument. “He’s Brotherhood, heart and soul,” she told Arthur. “He chose to break his heart rather than jeopardise the order.”

_So she knew about Danse’s feelings for her and said nothing? Was it respect for a commanding officer or affection that inspired her silence?_ Maxson shook his head. “That was a clever ploy to gain your trust, Sparrow. I’d implied my intentions from the start and it chose to undermine them to weaken us.”

He looked her in the eye. “It needs to be eradicated, purged from our ranks. If it sees any of the Knights or Paladins, it will see them as threats. But it will not see _you_ as a threat. I want you to track it down and execute it. Return the holotags to me as proof.”

He wanted to believe that she was unknowing, that the revelations of Danse’s true nature destroyed any affection she might have had for the synth, but he had to be certain. So he handed her the laser pistol that was to be her wedding gift from him so she stopped using that Institute weapon.

“You have a week,” Elder Maxson decreed as he turned away. “We will wed then.”

He prayed that he would not have to execute her for disloyalty. Not when he needed her so much.


	9. The Reality of Me and You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the truth of Paladin Danse is revealed and Sparrow Finlay given an order she cannot possibly obey in good faith, the Commonwealth decides to make a point to the Brotherhood of Steel about the rule of law in their land. Before the judgment of Elder Maxson comes, however, the Paladin discovers the reality of what he and Sparrow truly are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and grief/mourning. I will be writing smut in this chapter – yays? Spoiler warning for Blind Betrayal, though with canon divergence.

Danse was shirtless and chopping firewood from the old dead hedges in Sanctuary when Sparrow came to deliver a copy of the holotape she’d made for Sturges. The Minutemen were slowly expanding and if Shaun – if _Father_ – managed to take down the Brotherhood of Steel, they would be the next best hope for the Commonwealth. When he wasn’t running menial errands for the Proctors, he was teaching the settlers the finer arts of self-defence and upholding the Minutemen-Brotherhood alliance by himself. Maxson had made it abundantly clear what was riding on their marriage and Sparrow couldn’t see a way out of it. Not without destroying what Danse held so dear.

“Sparrow!” Right on cue, Preston Garvey showed up with a tentative smile and a raised eyebrow. “What brings you here?”

“I have information on the Institute the Minutemen could use,” she told him as Danse turned around. “If something happens to the Brotherhood…”

“Then we can take the bastards down,” Preston finished grimly. “I wish more of your order had yours and Danse’s open-mindedness.”

“I’m sure as Elder Maxson’s wife, she’ll be able to influence how he makes decisions,” Danse said tightly, not meeting her eyes.

Preston looked pointedly at Sparrow. “Is this what you want?” he asked quietly. “If not, the Minutemen owe you enough to give you sanctuary – we could use someone with your logistical abilities when we retake the Castle.”

“What I want and what the Brotherhood needs are two different things,” she said bitterly as she offered the holotape. “Is Codsworth here?”

“He is, but he’s pretty devastated about you marrying Maxson,” Preston said quietly. “It appears he was really keen on you and Danse.”

Sparrow closed her eyes. “I figure he deserves to know what happened to Shaun.”

“Then he’s in the Longs’ house.” Preston gestured to the house near the bridge.

“Thanks.” Sparrow headed over there, not wanting to cause Danse any more pain than she had. Damn Maxson for not finding a better wife!

If machines could cry, Codsworth would have when Sparrow relayed what happened to Shaun. “Oh Miss Sparrow!” he mourned. “Is there any hope?”

“No,” she said grimly. “Before she leaves, Madison Li’s going to collect as much information on the Institute’s technology – their crops, water purification and medicines – as she can. The Institute has got to go but it doesn’t mean their advances shouldn’t be lost.”

“I’m glad you’re saving what you can,” Codsworth said sadly. “Miss Sparrow, must you really marry this Elder Maxson? He sounds very… harsh. And Master Danse adores you.”

“Maxson is a product of his environment,” she said bitterly. “And what would hurt Danse more – me marrying the Elder or me letting the Brotherhood fall to internecine conflict?”

“What a spot of trouble you’re in and Master Nate barely buried!” Codsworth observed sorrowfully. “Is there some reason Master Danse can’t be the Elder of this Brotherhood? He’s frightfully competent as a leader and Mister Preston’s even offered him the rank of General in the Minutemen if he wants it.”

“Arthur Maxson is descended from our founding leader Roger Maxson. He was born to the rank and is the order’s last hope for reunification.” Danse’s voice was deliberately toneless as he explained the reality of the situation to the robot. “He is a great man and Sparrow is worthy of being Lady Maxson.”

“I still think he sounds like a spoilt petty tyrant,” Codsworth declared stoutly. “You would bleed for those under your command, Master Danse. I bet this one orders them to bleed without remorse.”

“So would Arthur,” Danse said sadly. “He is a fine leader and that’s what makes it so painful.”

“I’m sorry, Danse,” Sparrow whispered. “I didn’t know you’d be here. If I had, I would have asked Cait or Nick to bring the holotape to Sanctuary.”

“I know.” There was a wealth of tenderness in Danse’s voice, softening the brusque tones into something almost velvety. “I’m so proud of you, Sparrow. You’re putting the needs of the many above our own selfishness. You have no idea what that means to me.”

_Why don’t you just tear out my heart?_ Sparrow thought as she nodded dumbly. One word from Danse and she would flee the Brotherhood with him.

But Danse would never _think_ that word, let alone say it. So she made her farewells and turned for the bridge. If she hurried, she could stay at the Abernathy farm for the night before returning to the Prydwen.

Maybe one day her heart would stop breaking every time she saw those mournful brown eyes.

…

After Maxson walked away, Sparrow stared at the pistol, hand shaking uncontrollably. How could he be so impossibly, utterly, undeniably cruel to her, to give this order, to execute Danse whether he was a synth or not?

“Convenient that the Elder’s romantic rival is now branded synth and a traitor to the Brotherhood,” Madison Li noted darkly. Sparrow had persuaded her to return with the secrets of the Institute because the agricultural and medical technology _alone_ would alter the Commonwealth for the better. The scientist wasn’t best pleased with Arthur running things, at one point describing him as ‘a spoilt little shit’. But she agreed the Institute was the far greater threat and for less reason.

Ingram threw the Scribe a startled glance. “Maxson wouldn’t frame an innocent man, not like that,” the Proctor insisted, though her voice was doubtful.

“Quinlan and Cade are his personal lackeys – the former worships the ground he walks on,” Madison retorted with far too much accuracy for Sparrow’s comfort. “I find it… convenient that they confirm Danse’s stance as a synth.”

“Run some tests of your own to confirm it,” Sparrow commanded with a shaky voice. “I-I have my orders.”

The Proctor looked troubled. “Synth or not, Danse deserves the chance to defend himself,” she observed. “Unless caught in the act of betrayal, every member of the Brotherhood has the right to a trial before the Elder and their peers.”

“What’s this?” Haylen’s voice asked behind them. “Sparrow, what’s going on?”

The three women faced the Field Scribe, whose expression was grim. “I’ve been hearing some pretty interesting rumours in Cambridge,” she continued, pegging Sparrow with a death glare.

“Elder Maxson has the right to arrange unions within the Brotherhood as he sees fit,” Sparrow observed bitterly. “Whether they might wish otherwise. And now Danse is apparently a synth.”

Haylen’s lips tightened. “And you’re being sent to kill him?”

“The Elder seems to think that his chosen wife must prove herself loyal to him and him alone,” Madison said flatly. “I find it convenient that his romantic rival has been declared a synth.”

“That’s… fucked up,” Haylen finally observed slowly. “But you can’t disobey orders… can you?”

“No, I can’t,” Sparrow said bitterly. “I have to find Danse.”

“Then go do what you have to and I’ll attend to my duties.” Haylen saluted and left, Sparrow wondering at the meaning of her words.

…

“Send them back to hell!”

Danse led the Minutemen in retaking their outpost, an old crumbling ruin called the Castle, in the power armour that Sturges had painted in the paramilitary force’s colours. After seeing Sparrow again, he knew that he couldn’t return to the Prydwen, not for a long time – and there was an alliance the Brotherhood needed to fulfil. So in between his few orders from Ingram, he helped Garvey expand the group’s influence and found himself impressed with the grit of the Commonwealth’s people. The Capital Wasteland’s folk were so used to being dominated by Maxson and other groups that they obeyed out of fear. The Commonwealth, aside from the justified paranoia involving the Institute, had never been conquered and they weren’t about to allow that to happen now.

The mirelurks, including their queen, were soon dispatched and the nests purged with fire from Codsworth. Preston uttered a victory cry that was soon picked up by the others, including Danse, Cait and even fucking Hancock, who’d come along out of boredom: “United we stand, people! United we stand!”

When it was over, the old radio running again after Sturges set up the portable generators brought from Sanctuary because of the wind turbines he’d cobbled together there, Preston approached Danse with a broad grin. “ _Sure_ you don’t want to call yourself General?” he asked in all seriousness.

The Paladin smiled sadly and shook his head. “Despite all that’s happened, I’m still of the Brotherhood,” he reminded the Minuteman. “If anyone deserves the job, it’s you.”

“Job’s open. We’d all go through fire for you, Danse.” Garvey saluted and turned to organise the cooking of the mirelurks for their victory feast. Waste not, want not and all of that.

Within three hours, Piper brought her little sister Nat from Diamond City with Nick in tow, grinning broadly. “Well, well, the heroes have won,” she declared. “Can I get an exclusive?”

“Piper, you’re more than welcome to any stories we might generate,” Garvey said to her with a smile from the pit where the mirelurks were being baked in their shells. “In fact, if you’d like to move your printing press here, I think the Castle could use an embedded reporter and her newspaper.”

“I’m not letting McDonough run me out of Diamond City!” the reporter declared before turning to Danse. “Hello, Paladin. Where’s Sparrow?”

“She’s on the Prydwen,” he answered tersely.

“Being groomed to be the illustrious Elder Maxson’s bride I hear,” Piper observed dryly.

“She’s eminently suited to the role,” Danse pointed out flatly. Even here he couldn’t escape the mention of her name. In the weeks since she’d emerged from Vault into the Commonwealth, she had touched more lives than he thought possible.

“Uh huh. That’s interesting, because I received a tip-off from someone named Scribe Haylen.” Piper handed over a holotape. “You might want to listen to it and decide where your loyalties lie.”

Danse accepted it reluctantly. There was a terminal in the radio to play holotapes.

The operator briefly unhooked the speakers so that no one need hear Haylen’s words, a generous gesture, and went to grab a drink and some slow-baked mirelurk. Danse stepped out of his power armour and with shaking hands, inserted the holotape into the terminal, wondering what was happening.

The message was horrifying. “Elder Maxson has declared that you are a synth and must be executed on sight,” Haylen recorded, her voice shaky with fear and worry. “What’s really fucked up is that he’s sending Sparrow to make sure. Madison Li thinks he’s trying to get rid of a romantic rival and Ingram says you’re entitled to a public trial before the Elder and your peers. I don’t care if you’re a synth or not – all I know is that you’re one of the most decent men in the Brotherhood and you deserve to be warned. I don’t know if Sparrow would kill you, but I’m pretty sure the Elder will execute her if she doesn’t come back with your holotags. Ad Victoriam, Paladin.”

He dropped to his knees in utter horror at the betrayal. _Was_ he a synth, an abomination of technology who needed to be destroyed for the sake of humanity? Or was this Maxson’s way of securing Sparrow’s utmost loyalty for himself?

“Hell of a betrayal.” Nick’s dry tones, full of sympathy, pulled him out of the despair that fell upon him. “What are you going to do?”

Danse shuddered and pulled himself together. “I need to discover first and foremost if I am a synth. If I am, then the Brotherhood is right to execute me.”

“Fuck that, Metal Man,” Hancock said rudely. “Fuck the Brotherhood. Don’t know if that girlfriend of yours would kill you to trade up but there’s roughly a hundred Minutemen who owe you big time and several dozen people who would happily help you to piss off the shithead in the flying steel phallic symbol.”

“Miss Sparrow is aghast at the thought of marrying this Elder Maxson,” Codsworth declared staunchly. “Unfortunately, she can see no way out of this situation as she believes Master Danse would sooner die than betray the Brotherhood.”

“Why don’t we find out if he’s a synth before anything else?” Nick said as he lit up a smoke. “If he is, the Railroad can get him out of the Commonwealth.”

“I’m not leaving,” Danse declared, his fists clenching. “I will _not_ flee.”

He rose to his feet as everyone, people who considered him and maybe Sparrow as friends and allies, stared at him in shock. “I’m not afraid to die. I fear, however, that I could be an Institute plant. Even if I’m not…” He took a deep breath. “Even if I am a synth yet not an Institute plant, then I will insist on a public trial. Elder Maxson has _pissed_ on everything we in the Brotherhood hold sacred by forcing Sparrow to come after me. I’m not afraid to die… but I will make my death mean something.”

“We’ll get Sparrow to come to the Castle then,” Garvey suggested. “Danse… She’s going through with the marriage because she knows it would kill you to see the Brotherhood fail. I could read that much from her. If she and you decide to tell Elder Maxson to go pound sand, then the Minutemen will stand at your back.”

He turned to the radio operator. “Switch on those speakers and call in every available Minuteman, especially the veterans who recall Becker running the place. We had heavy artillery once and we’re going to need it again.”

The operator saluted and went to obey as Danse stared. Would they blow up the Prydwen to protect him? Because that’s what Garvey’s comments implied.

“I must agree with Mister Preston,” Codsworth observed. “Miss Sparrow would always swallow her feelings and do what she thought was best for others. It was why she turned to the Daytripper and Calmex after young Shaun’s birth, to make it look like she was always happy for Master Nate’s sake.”

Piper inhaled raggedly. “Okay, I’m still sceptical but I’ll take your word for it.”

“I’ll take you to Dr Amari,” Nick offered. “If you are a synth with stripped memories, she’ll know. She always keeps a record of those she’s helped.”

Danse nodded. One step at a time. If he was a synth, then so be it. But if this was Maxson’s attempt to destroy him… Then he was going to rip the esteemed Elder apart with his bare hands and not even bother with power armour. He would _not_ allow everything so sacred to the Brotherhood be pissed upon by a boy who justified every whim of his for the greater good.

…

Nick’s expression was grim as he led her towards the Minutemen’s newly reclaimed base. “You’re not planning to kill him, are you?” the synth asked candidly.

“No,” Sparrow promised hoarsely. In this, Maxson was correct. “I need him to disappear.”

“Damn fool won’t do that,” Nick observed with a sigh. “You going to join him? He would if you wanted him too.”

“I can’t.” There were too many good people in the Brotherhood who relied on her. Maxson would make examples of them once Liberty Prime was activated and the Institute destroyed. “I just need his holotags.”

Bless Haylen for warning him. Danse would have walked into Cambridge Station and been executed by Rhys, who was disgusted he served under a synth. Sparrow couldn’t bear it if Danse died at the hands of the Brotherhood he loved so dearly.

The Castle had been hastily fortified, its walls lined with machine gun turrets and… good God, anti-aircraft artillery at each end of the fortress. “The Minutemen won’t let the Brotherhood bully them around,” Nick observed blandly.

Preston met them at the gate, accompanied by an old woman in military fatigues and a combat breastplate with a star on it. “Scribe Sparrow Finlay, this is Ronnie Shaw, General of the Minutemen,” he introduced formally.

“I’m not here to kill him,” Sparrow repeated as the woman fixed her with a gimlet gaze.

“Well, he won’t disappear, more fool him,” Ronnie answered, her voice hard and fierce. “Lot of people, Minutemen and not, owe him their lives.”

“I know.”

“He says he’s going to insist on a Brotherhood trial. If that’s so, you can hold it here,” Ronnie continued calmly. “I don’t trust that Maxson one bit.”

“Maxson thinks he’s doing the right thing by the Brotherhood,” Sparrow muttered bitterly as she was led inside. “Unfortunately, he might be mistaking his ambition for necessity.”

“Many tyrants do,” Ronnie agreed. “Not my place to tell you how to run the Brotherhood but you’d do well to cut him out like the cancer he is.”

The courtyard was filled with Minutemen from around the Commonwealth, most of them armed with laser muskets, pipe pistols and baseball bats, a few Neighbourhood Watch (mostly ghouls) from Goodneighbour and a few familiar faces, most of their expressions ranging from disappointment to sorrow.

Sparrow drew herself up and unholstered both pistols, handing them to Garvey, and a sigh ran through the crowd.

_So much for Danse disappearing,_ she thought with a sigh as the crowd parted to reveal Danse in his Brotherhood uniform. This was a media circus, deliberately so, the Commonwealth telling Maxson that while he was in their territory, he would abide by their rules.

She took a deep breath and stepped forward. “Paladin Danse, you have been accused and discovered of being a synth, which by the Litany of the Brotherhood of Steel is an offence punishable by death. How do you plead?”

His mournful brown eyes met hers. “I am a synth designated M7-97, created by the Institute to be one of their slaves until I chose to flee. My memories were erased by Dr Amari and I was smuggled by the Railroad to Rivet City in the Capital Wasteland, where I joined the Brotherhood of Steel and served loyally, unaware of my true nature. So I plead guilty.”

“Then by the Litany, you are to be held until trial at the Minutemen’s Castle before Elder Maxson and your peers as is your right as a member of the Brotherhood of Steel.” Sparrow smiled sourly and lowered her tone. “Which, if the Minutemen are broadcasting this across the Commonwealth, will be about an hour or two before Maxson comes to collect us both for treason and insubordination.”

Danse’s smile was a feral thing. “I intend to demand the trial by combat. If Maxson wants me dead, he can get his hands dirty for a change.”

“General, I think now might be a fine time to test our guns,” Preston said blandly to Ronnie. “To make sure the Brotherhood aren’t stupid enough to attack us with vertibirds instead of coming for a fair trial.”

“Colonel Garvey, I like how you think,” the woman declared. “Grenadiers, throw those grenades at every point surrounding the harbour! Artillerists, fire at will when you see that smoke!”

The old WW2 artillery was soon in action, bombarding every point where smoke rose from.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Garvey said in awe. “I think we just levelled the playing field.”

“I hope it doesn’t come to that,” Danse said grimly. “There are children and civilians on that airship.”

“I hope it doesn’t either,” Ronnie agreed fervently. “If Maxson causes trouble, I’m blowing his vertibird from the sky. Maybe that will give your Brotherhood a chance to get its shit together.”

“General…” Danse seemed lost for words as he looked down at the wiry woman.

“You can never have too many friends in the Commonwealth, Paladin Danse, and if not for you and the lady at Concord, there wouldn’t be any Minutemen left,” Preston reminded him. “Remember what Mama Murphy said: ‘A man needs friends in the Commonwealth, Paladin, and you’re going to need them more than most by the time this all ends. Remember it’s the heart and soul that makes a person, not the flesh, and that will of steel you have will carry you through the pain to the other side’.”

“The settlements under the control of the Brotherhood are pretty happy with their lot,” Ronnie added. “Can’t say as I agree with your anti-synth and anti-ghoul rhetoric, but that’s for you to figure out. Maybe having ghouls and synths here today will give your order a wakeup call it sorely needs. But so long as you respect your neighbours, we don’t have a problem with the Brotherhood being here.”

“I, personally, have no problem with synths like Nick and… Danse and ghouls like Hancock,” Sparrow said softly. “But my _son_ runs the Institute and he – and it – are abominations. There’s stuff there that’s worth salvaging and I managed to get most of it out through Madison Li – agricultural and medical technology, the theory behind their teleportation. But the Brotherhood of Steel is dedicated to preserving and protecting technology – and destroying that which is too dangerous for anyone to have. The Institute has gone too far and needs to be taken down.”

Piper, who’d been glaring at Sparrow but otherwise remaining silent, let her mouth fall open in shock. “Hoo boy…”

“That’s a hell of a burden to bear. Explains why you’re willing to put up with an ass like Maxson,” Ronnie said with rough sympathy.

Sparrow nodded and looked towards the Prydwen. “Can I have a quick wash and something to eat?” she asked. “Things are going to be stressful in the next few hours.”

“Go ahead,” Ronnie said.

Sparrow followed where a Minuteman led her. This was… going to be hard. But she needed to make a point to the Brotherhood and herself about the rule of law.

…

Danse was going to be a dead man – _synth_ – soon. Maxson’s legend came about through honest means. But this trial… This trial would hopefully make Sparrow a power to match him, to balance out the Elder, if not outright eclipse him. Or replace him, because Danse intended to do as much damage as he could before he died. It was the only gift he could give the woman he loved.

“Danse?”

Sparrow’s voice, soft and unsure, interrupted his reverie. He turned and swore quietly as he realised she was wearing nothing but a towel.

“No,” he breathed. “You’ll jeopardise the trial.”

“Me? I’m just a Scribe.” Her tone was ironic. “Teagan and Ingram are going to haul the Elder over hot coals no matter what for breaching Brotherhood protocol.”

“You are no more ‘just a Scribe’ than I am a real person,” he pointed out bluntly.

“You _are_ a real person,” Sparrow insisted. “You bleed, you weep, you’re so loyal to the Brotherhood it fucking hurts.”

“I remember my life in the ruins and the Brotherhood saving me from it,” Danse said, unable to tear his eyes away from the expanse of flesh revealed by the brief towel. “But it was a lie, wasn’t it?”

“Not your life in the Brotherhood,” she said, shifting slightly so that the towel parted at the bottom to show a flash of hipbone. “Not that kiss between us.”

Danse looked at her despairingly. “You need to go. The Brotherhood will need you as a leader no matter what happens today and…” He swallowed thickly. “You can’t jeopardise that by being intimate with a synth.”

“I would like, just for _fucking_ once in my life since I woke up in this hellhole of a landscape, to love and be loved in return,” Sparrow answered, her voice breaking on the curse. “But if you don’t want to – or synths can’t – I understand. I just want you to know, Paladin Danse, that I love you. I think I have since you held me in that stinking bed in Goodneighbour and promised you’d take me to bury my dead husband.”

“By the first week of knowing you I was imagining my life with you,” Danse admitted, unable to deny such raw honesty. “When Arthur told me his plans I… was ready to kill him. But I thought he could give you a better life than I could.”

Sparrow looked away. “I only would have married him to preserve the Brotherhood you love so much, Danse. There’s more political troubles than you’re aware of. Maxson wanted to marry me, in part, so he could cut the strings the Lost Hills Elders attached to him.”

In that moment, Danse almost pitied Maxson. But trying to force Sparrow to covertly execute him was the final straw for the Paladin. He was a dead synth but by the time he was done with the Elder, he would hold no power to threaten the Vault Dweller.

“I love you,” he said softly. “Damn me for a fool but…”

He stepped forward and peeled off the towel to reveal small breasts tipped with dusk-rose nipples, a soft stomach that bore the wrinkled marks of her proven fertility and a thatch of dark hair that glistened in the dim light. She was thinner than he recalled, the bones of her hips more sharply defined than they should be yet there was enough of her for his artificial body to respond.

This time he initiated the kiss, tasting the complex flavour that was uniquely her and exploring the lines and hollows of her throat, taking a nipple into his mouth until it was a hard nub. Her fingers twisted in his black hair, pulling it hard enough to hurt but he welcomed the ache, knowing that while artificial construct he might be, the reactions he produced were real enough.

She tried to run her hands over his body but Danse knew he’d come too soon judging by the rigid, leaking state of his cock. So he picked her up as he had on the Prydwen and braced her against the wall, one arm under her right leg and the other holding her wrists together. Sparrow looked up at him with half-lidded eyes and kiss-swollen lips, the scar whose story he’d never know reddened against dark pink flesh, and he almost finished then and there.

“Fuck!” he swore eloquently as he entered her. His brain processes shut down after that, hips snapping as he drove himself into that wet warmth, her left leg pressed against his waist. The noises she made – little moans and gasps and a soft cry that made him growl with pleasure – were underscored by the slap of flesh against flesh. When he released her hands to brace themselves better against the wall, she snaked one between them, doing _something_ that made her tighten and shudder around his cock to trigger his own release.

He was organic enough to come, he thought distantly as the white noise in his head cleared and the lights stopped dancing behind his eyes.

“Is that real enough for you?” she whispered as they panted.

“Yes,” he rasped.

“Then believe you’re real.” She kissed him and for a moment, Danse believed they might come through this.

But the sound of vertibirds shattered the moment and he knew it was his time to die with honour as befitted a Paladin of the Brotherhood of Steel.


	10. The Rule of Law

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for the trial by combat at the Minutemen's Castle and both Sparrow Finlay and Paladin Danse face their greatest trials. The fate of the Commonwealth rests in their hands while other factions watch and ponder their options.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thank you for reading and reviewing! Two men enter and only one will leave! Ahem. Trigger warning for misogyny, dehumanisation, death, violence and fantastic racism, and mentions of child neglect/abuse, child soldiers and PTSD. This comes from content that was cut from the original game that frankly should have stayed there, but has been rewritten to suit the needs of the story. I also can’t believe that as arrogant as the Institute is, they wouldn’t have backup plans – or at least Shaun wouldn’t. His parents are capable people, after all.

Arthur Maxson was going to _kill_ Danse for putting him in this position. Once the broadcast reached the Prydwen – and those guns tested, one landing on Fort Strong’s western shore – he knew the synth had him trapped. Gone was the chance for him to deal with the traitor discreetly at the hands of Sparrow – and her chance to prove herself as Lady Maxson. The Proctors, all of whom _knew_ the Paladin was a synth, insisted that it received a fair trial as per protocol. Even Quinlan, utterly loyal to him.

As he had the Initiate bring the vertibird around so he could land, he saw Danse waiting for him in the middle of a loose circle of people – including one visible synth and someone he was fairly certain was a ghoul. Its friends had come to play, it seemed. No matter, he could deal with it in front of its allies and prove to the entire Commonwealth the righteousness of the Brotherhood’s cause – and the foolishness of defying them.

Two more vertibirds, each carrying two Proctors and other interested parties he’d need to remember closely, landed in tight formation behind his. Arthur Maxson jumped out before his vertibird landed, wearing his power armour as he was, and landed just before a dark-skinned man in a long brown coat and a woman wearing military fatigues with the bearing of a commander. The leaders of the Minutemen, the so-called group of citizen soldiers who’d expanded more rapidly than he anticipated, proving themselves to a danger. Reports had Danse helping them, spreading them like a virus throughout the Commonwealth. Were these two synths too? It bore investigating when he was done here.

“Welcome to the Castle,” the old woman drawled. “I wasn’t expecting a lad so young.”

Arthur raised his eyes to meet hers. “I was named High Elder at age sixteen through my accomplishments. I assure you, I am more competent that the construct you’re protecting.”

“That ‘construct’ is a good man who insists on playing by your rules because of his utter loyalty to your order,” the General replied. “Wouldn’t be a Minutemen left if not for him helping out.”

Arthur refrained from mentioning that it necessarily wasn’t a bad thing if these self-trained soldiers were wiped out. A certain amount of diplomacy was still necessary with the Minutemen, especially since they had those guns and apparently the ability to call down artillery strikes in their territory. “It,” he corrected mildly. “M7-97 is an it.”

He looked around for Sparrow. Was she being held captive? The Elder had come to the reluctant conclusion that she was somewhat pliant despite her intelligence, prone to being persuaded by emotional arguments, and if she wasn’t a traitor he’d need to make sure that there were strong succession protocols in place if he died to protect her and any children she bore. If she had actively colluded with this _thing_ , he reluctantly had no choice but to execute her.

“I’m here, Elder.” The crowds parted to reveal the Scribe wearing her uniform, chestnut hair pulled back into the tight bun he recalled her wearing when she first came on board the Prydwen instead of the softer style she sported when he made his intentions clear. “Paladin Danse, like any other member of the Brotherhood, is entitled to trial by combat. There is nothing in the Litany that prevents a synth from being refused the right.”

“It is not alive!” he reminded her forcefully. “The Litany doesn’t apply to it!”

“Danse was _alive_ enough to teach you the mini-gun,” she countered smoothly. “He was _alive_ enough to tear himself apart emotionally for the good of the Brotherhood.”

“When this is over, you and I are going to have a long talk about usurping my authority in front of the soldiers,” he warned her darkly. “That is, of course, you aren’t executed for treason.”

She stepped back, biting her swollen lip. It took Arthur a moment to process the likely reason for her mouth to be swollen and his veins flooded with a rage so complete that it was all he could do to remember where he was. Through weakness and misguided affection, the woman he’d chosen to be the next Lady Maxson allowed that _thing_ to kiss her, no doubt more than kiss her.

“When I am finished with your synth lover, I will build your coffin from its parts,” he promised in a hiss of rage.

“Threats against a civilian, Elder Maxson? I thought that Litany of yours had a strict code of conduct,” the General of the Minutemen drawled.

“As a member of the Brotherhood of Steel, Field Scribe Finlay is under my authority, not that of the Commonwealth,” Maxson retorted, throttling back his justified anger and disappointment. That synth had sunk its claws deep into the Vault Dweller, no doubt recognising her vulnerable state. He should have sent Knight Rhys or Scribe Haylen to finish off the construct and kept her on the Prydwen.

“That may be so, but you’re not in Brotherhood territory, you’re in the Commonwealth,” answered the dark-skinned Minuteman second. “We recognise your authority from Nordhagen Beach in the north to the Boston Airport in the south. We have no quarrel with you and the territory you control, the settlements who have voluntarily chosen to give their allegiance to you. In fact, you’re doing a good many things right, I’ll grant you that.”

“Then why are you interfering in Brotherhood business?” Maxson demanded, utterly bewildered by these people.

“Because you sent a good woman to execute a good man without fair trial, breaking your own laws,” the man, who had to be the Garvey Maxson spoke briefly to, answered with a lift of his strong chin. “Leaving aside all your complicated romantic history with both individuals, that’s an egregious misuse of authority in Minutemen eyes.”

“And in Brotherhood eyes,” muttered someone too low for Arthur to identify. “Danse’s status as a synth is undeniable but your way of solving the situation is… morally questionable.”

“Whatever I’ve done or not done with Paladin Danse, I’ll answer to the Proctors as is appropriate,” Sparrow said quietly, with far less shame than she should be showing right now. “But the Litany is clear: no member of the Brotherhood of Steel may be executed without trial by the hand of their sponsor or any candidate they have sponsored unless _caught in the direct act of treason by a superior officer._ Danse was caught in ‘nothing’ beyond existing – we have access to a witness who will vouch for the fact that he was an Institute synth who escaped his masters and underwent a memory wipe before heading to Rivet City. Whatever Danse was, he served the Brotherhood with every fibre in his being.”

“That Danse needs to die goes without saying,” Proctor Quinlan agreed calmly. “He is a synth, an abomination of science. But the Paladin I know would gladly submit to the firing squad, so complete is his devotion to the Brotherhood’s tenets.”

“For what we owe Danse, the Minutemen would have blown your fancy airship out of the sky to protect him,” the General added pointedly. “But he tells me that there’s children and civilians on board, and that’s not how we operate unless we have no choice. Only other synth I know who gives that much of a fuck about civilians is Nick Valentine.”

“Enough!” Maxson swept his hand out imperiously to silence them. “I have a synth to execute and an errant Scribe to collect.”

No doubt sensing his mood, the crowd made a path for Maxson, allowing him to stride effortlessly to Danse. The construct wore power armour, a more advanced version that the T-60 Paladins were assigned, and considerably modified besides. Its too-human face, once the face of a trusted soldier and maybe even a friend, was grim and prepared for battle.

“So that’s Elder Maxson. He does like look the kind of guy to have a big flying metal penis, doesn’t he?” the ghoul, outlandishly dressed in garish pre-War garments, asked of the wiry redhead with freckles wearing tight brown leather.

“He does,” she agreed in an Erin accent. “I mean, synths are dangerous but Danse and even that creepy bastard Nick could have fucked us up a dozen ways to Sunday if they wanted to and they didn’t.”

“From you, Cait, that’s a declaration of love,” drawled a tattered, battered synth in a crumpled fedora and patched trench coat at the end of the line.

“Shove it up your arse!” she immediately replied, earning a bray of laughter from the synth.

Arthur looked the ghoul and the synth in the eye, marking them for future extermination. The ghoul smiled gruesomely, black eyes promising hell, and Nick Valentine’s plastic face was coldly judgmental.

“Look at _me_ , Maxson.” For the first time, the synth that once dared to call itself a Paladin spoke. “I’m the one you want.”

“You’ve played your part well, haven’t you?” Maxson asked of the construct. “Infiltrated the Brotherhood, disrupted its operations… corrupted its members.”

Danse’s jaw rippled, brown eyes hard. “I didn’t know I was a synth. Every time a soldier triumphed under my command, I rejoiced. Every time one died, I mourned. When we stormed the super mutant Shepherd’s stronghold to take him down, I was proud of the soldier I taught how to fight with a mini-gun who led the charge. I remember the ruins of Rivet City, starving and searching for scrap to survive. When Cutler became a super mutant, shooting him in the head was the hardest thing I’d done to that point. I have lived and will die by the Brotherhood’s code, Elder Maxson, but I’ll be damned before I let you abuse it for your own purposes.”

“And how, pray tell, have I abused the Litany for my own purposes?” Maxson asked, disbelief at the thing’s utter _gall_ colouring his voice.

“Calling for my immediate execution without trial. You know, Arthur, I would have come in and accepted my fate. I am the enemy and need to be the example, not the exception.” Danse’s voice was stony as it deliberately avoided looking at Sparrow. “I could forgive that – you might have wanted to kill me discreetly so the common rank and file didn’t lose morale. Elders make those sorts of pragmatic decisions.”

“So why the circus?” Maxson asked, ignoring its use of his first name.

“Because you ordered the woman I love to do your dirty work when I had already accepted that her marriage to you would be beneficial to the Brotherhood and backed off,” Danse responded harshly. “I don’t know the legalities of that, but sending a Scribe to do a Paladin’s job in some warped test of loyalty is _wrong_.”

“You would have perceived the Knight or Paladin as a threat,” Maxson pointed out as sucked-in breaths and gasps accompanied Danse’s little announcement. “But not Field Scribe Finlay. I obviously thought better of her loyalty and devotion to the cause than the reality.”

“I would have accepted my fate, you hypocritical son of a bitch!” Danse’s sudden roar startled many in the crowd. “But from the beginning, you deliberately sought to mould Field Scribe Finlay into the perfect consort whether she liked it or not. Does she know you planned to kill her son, even if he was still a babe or child, because the Institute needed to be destroyed root and branch?”

Sparrow gasped before a look of utter blank rage descended upon her features. “Until I found out what he’d become, Shaun was the one thing that kept me going,” she hissed furiously.

“The Institute needs to be cut out like the cancer it is,” Maxson retorted, wondering why he was justifying himself to a pair of traitors. “Everything must be destroyed.”

“Even the agricultural and medical knowledge they’ve maintained? What about those teleporters – can think of a few good uses for those,” the General of the Minutemen pointed out. “Put one of those on the Prydwen or at the Castle and we could get soldiers and supplies anywhere in the Commonwealth within minutes of receiving alerts.”

“The General is correct,” Madison Li said firmly. “One of the reasons I agreed to return to the Brotherhood despite my reservations about the Liberty Prime Project was because Field Scribe Finlay explicitly asked me to smuggle out the advances in civilian sciences.”

The scientist looked unrepentant when Maxson glared at her. “With the Institute’s civilian sciences, we could make the Commonwealth green again. I’ve already applied it to the Brotherhood’s own advances in agricultural science and Hangman’s Alley is producing three times the crops it did before. If we can help the Commonwealth prosper, we can do more than survive, we can thrive.”

“And how long before ‘thriving’ leads to the perversion of technology?” Maxson asked acidly.

“This from the man who’s planning to use a giant robot to blast its way into the Institute,” Madison retorted. “Subtle, Elder, very subtle.”

“You’re gonna use the same robot that trashed the Enclave?” someone with a raw Capital Wasteland accent asked in the crowd. “Is it just me or have the Brotherhood gone insane since the Lyons died?”

“That plan’s obviously gone out the window now you’ve chosen to reveal critical information,” Maxson informed Li. “The Institute will no doubt know this within the day.”

“Hours,” Sparrow said grimly. “Father’s people are… effective.”

“Other ways to skin a cat,” the General noted. “The fight’s not done yet.”

“ _Please_ leave the felines out of this,” Proctor Quinlan said in a pained tone. The man was obsessed with that cat of his.

“Enough!” Maxson roared once again. “Since the synth Danse has chosen to make its execution, I will be happy to oblige it.”

Proctor Ingram stepped forward, expression neutral. “You are accepting Paladin Danse’s request for a trial by combat then?”

Maxson allowed himself a feral smile as Danse shifted into a combat-ready stance. “You’d better clear a space, Proctor, because I am. And then I’m going to purge the Brotherhood of its taint. And then the Commonwealth.”

He’d cleansed the Capital Wasteland, reunited the Brotherhood and destroyed numerous enemies. Compared to those struggles, dealing with Danse and its Institute masters was going to be a piece of cake.

…

“Two men enter and only one shall leave!”

“Cait, this isn’t the Combat Zone,” Nick muttered to the brawler.

“No, but it’s the same principle. Two men getting into a pissing match over a woman.” The redhead flashed a cheerful grin. “Now shut up and let me make the calls, synth. I can tell you the bets on this will be higher than Hancock on a good night out.”

“Who will it be? The Synth Sensation Paladin Danse, able to punch a deathclaw into submission and kill a dozen mirelurks just so he can have a decent breakfast? Or Elder Arthur Maxson, the guy no one really knows anything about except that he has a flying metal dick?”

Nick had to grant the woman knew her trade. If they could wean her off the Psycho, Cait might just have a future in managing radroach races or something. Or maybe the Combat Zone, just without raiders. Or another robot races like the one that got wiped out at East City Downs after the Brotherhood dealt with the Triggermen there.

“Hundred caps on Danse,” Hancock declared after inhaling some Jet.

MacCready, the merc who worked out of Hotel Rexford, was apparently in charge of taking the bets. Nick had no idea where Hancock and Cait found him for the retaking of the Castle, but he’d decided to hang around for the Brotherhood show. Coming from the Capital Wasteland as he did, the man had given the Minutemen a surprising amount of information about Arthur Maxson.

One of the Proctors, a goateed man with iron-grey hair and a sly look about him, handed the sniper a handful of caps. “Ten on Elder Maxson,” he declared. “Danse is good but the Elder has a lot to prove.”

The Proctor who liked cats glared at him. “This is a solemn trial by combat and you’re betting on the outcome?”

“It’s serious business, Quinlan. The caps I’ll rake in will feed the Prydwen for a month.” The man sighed and shook his head. “Shame about Finlay though, she’s a good woman.”

The Proctor in the power armour frame looked grim. “The Elder has to answer to us though,” she observed. “When a _synth_ has more respect for the Litany than the Elder…”

“We’ll need to close up that little loophole Sparrow found,” Quinlan mused. “Such a waste about her. I never met a woman who understood the spirit of the Litany better.”

They were making some assumptions about the likely victor. “What happens if Danse wins?” Nick asked.

The Proctors stared at him. “No one asked for you to speak, synth,” Quinlan began, only to be shut down by Ronnie Shaw’s pointed cough. If that woman ran the Brotherhood, the Institute would be ruins by now.

“What _will_ happen if the Paladin wins?”

The Proctor who liked to bet looked troubled. “If Maxson dies, we need to choose a new High Elder. If Danse wasn’t a synth, he’d automatically get the rank, but…”

“But nothing.” Shaw’s voice was harsh. “That man bleeds Brotherhood and proved he isn’t the Institute’s tool by running away in the first place. Just because he’s got a few circuits…”

“The Lost Hills Elders would pitch a fit,” Quinlan said flatly. “If Danse wins, we…”

“We’ll let him leave in peace,” the legless Proctor finished quietly. “It’s not likely he can become Elder, not when he’s a synth, but he will have proven his innocence about being an Institute plant.”

“He’s more human than Maxson,” Shaw said bluntly. “Maxson just said that he’d wipe us all out if he wins. Not just the ghouls and the synths, but everyone who’s disagreed with him.”

“In _and_ outside of the Brotherhood,” a female Scribe pointed out. “I joined up to make a better world, not let my moral fibre be drowned in an ocean of blood.”

_Haylen,_ Nick identified, recalling the holotape that the woman had given to Piper on her trip to Diamond City.

“The Proctors have ways of managing the Elders, Haylen,” Quinlan said firmly. “Maxson is still the best of us.”

“I’d hate to see the worst,” Piper said under her breath.

And then the ground shook as the two power armour-clad fighters closed in for the first time. Nick turned around, knowing that this fight would decide the fate of not just some very good people, but the Commonwealth as a whole. Somewhere, the Institute was probably pissing itself laughing.

…

Shaun Finlay wasn’t certain what possessed him to come aboveground to this reeking, ruined hellhole of a city with only a Courser – X6-88 – as company. Perhaps it was scientific curiosity to see the Wastelanders in their natural habitat or to observe his mother interacting with this Brotherhood of Steel that had gotten to her before he could. Maybe it was even his mother’s charisma that made him briefly consider that perhaps the Institute _should_ share some of their knowledge when she made the impassioned argument.

M7-97 had been a prototype, somewhere between ordinary Gen-3 synth and Courser, and the supreme physicality of that model proved itself in power armour. Shaun wasn’t certain what to think about his mother’s relationship with the synth – tall, dark-haired soldier-type apparently not unlike his late father – but the construct’s devotion was obvious. He hammered this Elder Maxson into the ground, fighting with an agility no ordinary man would possess in power armour, and took hits that would have laid a typical synth out on its back.

But Maxson was a skilled, canny fighter and returned blow for blow. It was an even match, truth be told, and Shaun found himself cheering softly every time Danse scored a small victory against the genocidal tyrant.

“We should definitely continue the M7 models,” X6-88 noted calmly. “Their physicality and capacity for loyalty are almost equal to the Coursers.”

Shaun’s mouth quirked to the side. “I didn’t know you had it in you to compliment anyone who wasn’t me or another Courser.”

“M7-97 tore Z2-47 apart with his bare hands for your mother’s sake,” X6-88 observed dryly. “I respect any worthy adversary.”

“You mean Danse,” Shaun corrected idly – and then paused as he realised what he’d done, assigning human qualities to a synth.

But Gen-3 synths were fundamentally human, built from his uncorrupted DNA. Aside from a few plastic and metal components, they were organic entities capable of bleeding, feeling pain and all the other physiological reactions to mental, physical and emotional harm humans possessed. Some of the newer models were even capable of procreating with each other, their internal systems were so advanced.

“We’ve redefined mankind, haven’t we?” Shaun asked wonderingly.

“There are a few glitches,” the Courser, who was his personal bodyguard and close confidant, said critically. “But I think the post-M7 models are as close to perfect as anyone can achieve, short of a Courser.”

Shaun took a deep breath. His latest model, the child-synth copy of himself, would grow as a human would. “Then I think it’s time we started to seed our own settlements with said models. Assign some Coursers to make sure they don’t go haywire but otherwise leave them alone.”

“Father?” Dull surprise coated X6-88’s tone.

“Also, if the escaped synths aren’t a danger to us or the Commonwealth as a whole, put them under observation by the same Coursers but do nothing else,” Shaun continued.

He looked up at the stunned Courser and managed a wry smile even as the cancer clawed in his gut. “My mother once claimed that there was hope for humanity up here. I’m sceptical, but a good scientist never lets his personal biases get in the way of an experiment.”

“Ah.” X6-88 sighed. “The division heads will disagree with your decision.”

“Of course they will. Since Madison Li defected with that agricultural and medical knowledge, they’ve been running around like chickens with their heads cut off,” Shaun observed dryly.

Then he sighed. “What my mother could have achieved if we’d just brought her directly to the Institute.”

“I believe you wanted to show her what a hellhole the Commonwealth was before bringing her home,” X6-88 observed with just a hint of sarcasm. He’d counselled against that decision and believed himself proven correct.

“I did. I’ve always believed she could have brought us into the light. The Institute is run by scientists, old friend, not leaders. And my mother… is a leader.” Shaun sighed again. “If Danse dies, you are to execute Maxson within the hour and blow up the Prydwen before my mother can be returned there.”

“Of course, though she is against the Institute and its goals.”

“Yes, she is.” Shaun sighed sorrowfully again. “Our secrets are being laid bare, X6, and sooner or later the aboveground will destroy us if we let them. I’m initiating Project Exodus.”

“Not Project Ragnarok?” the Courser asked in some surprise.

“No. There’s enough of the loyal son remaining in me to let my mother have her chance at saving the Commonwealth. She outwitted us, old friend, and she deserves to have her prize.”

“I will leave enough forces at the Institute to convince the Commonwealth we have been destroyed when they inevitably attack,” X6-88 promised.

“And I will remain. I’m dying anyway and… I would like to speak to my mother one last time.” Shaun looked up at the Courser. “Who knows? My mother may prove to be an enlightened leader who will allow the Institute forces to surrender and make use of our works and talents.”

“I’m fairly certain the Brotherhood isn’t capable of such innovation,” the Courser noted dryly.

“Probably not,” agreed Shaun. “If we’re fortunate, it will be the Minutemen who try and destroy us. They aren’t as… genocidal and self-destructive.”

The scientist turned his attention to the fight. Judging by the exhaustion of the combatants, it would be over. And for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t sure if Institute ingenuity could overwhelm humanity’s tenacity.

…

Danse was a bruise from top to toe even inside the power armour and only the fact that Maxson looked as bad made him work through the pain. He’d lasted longer than he thought against the Elder and as he pulled off his now-broken helmet and tossed it to the side, the two men spiralling around each other to regain their breath, he vainly imagined for a moment that he might walk off this battlefield.

The Paladin chanced a sideways glance at the Proctors and saw their troubled faces. No matter what, he’d raised doubts about Maxson’s leadership here. The Brotherhood might be able to save itself from the destructive path Arthur had started them on.

“Why didn’t you throw the fucking helmet at him, you idiot?” Hancock yelled at him from the sidelines. “I’ve got caps riding on you! Take him down already!”

Danse’s mouth, bloody and swollen, quirked to the side. _Of course_ there were bets on this battle for the Brotherhood’s future.

“So the Paladin and the Elder are circling each other like deathclaws looking for a weakness!” Cait, who was treating this like a cage match, called out. “Which man with the metal dick will win?”

Arthur pulled off his helmet and Danse dived to the side to avoid the projectile.

“Stop giving Elder Asshole tips,” MacCready told Hancock.

“Why don’t you just lay down and die already?” Maxson asked almost conversationally.

“Because too many lives ride on it,” Danse retorted. “The Brotherhood of Steel is supposed to protect humanity from technology run amok, not aggrandise itself as conquerors.”

“The Commonwealth needs unity and I can bring that to them.”

“The Minutemen would argue the point.” Danse allowed himself a smirk. “With artillery that’s capable of bringing the Prydwen down.”

“They need me to destroy the Institute!” Maxson snarled.

“Actually, they don’t. Sparrow gave them a copy of the same holotape she made for Ingram in case the Brotherhood was destroyed by the Institute.” Danse deliberately pitched his voice so the Proctors heard that bit. “Of us all, I think she’s the one who’s kept her oath the best.”

His eyes flicked sideways to the Scribe, who stood between Piper and Nick. Her face was tight with fear for him and what would happen if this battle was lost.

Maxson spat, bloody spittle landing on Danse’s power armour. “Her own son runs the Institute. How do we know she’s not in league with them?”

“If that was the case, she’d have married you cheerfully and manipulated you,” Danse countered. “And if you malign her once more, I’m going to make you choke on your teeth.”

The Elder smiled sourly. “No need to continue the charade, synth. You’ve done plenty of damage to the Brotherhood and destroyed my hope for a loyal wife. You don’t have to pretend you love her anymore.”

“Maxson, you’ve never loved anyone else other than yourself and maybe Sarah Lyons,” Danse retorted tightly as his fusion core beeped at 10% capacity. “So no wonder you can’t recognise it when it’s right in front of you.”

“You leave Sentinel Lyons out of this! You defile her memory, you fucking construct, by speaking her name!”

“And you defile her memory by becoming everything that the Lyons hated,” Danse countered softly. “The Lost Hills Elders must be pleased as punch to know how well you dance to their tune.”

His barb struck home and Danse closed his eyes. If he died today, if everyone who ever supported him died with him, then hopefully he planted a seed that might save the Brotherhood in the Elder.

Life in the Commonwealth was hope amidst the ruins, a stalk of serrated grey-brown grain coaxed from radioactive soil, a dream of a better tomorrow. All Danse could was plant a few seeds of whatever came to his hand and hope it would grow.

He heard Arthur’s metal footsteps speed up as he charged forward and activated the jetpack mod that Sturges installed. He went straight up for about five seconds before the fusion core died… and then fell right back to earth to land so hard most of his battered power armour fell off, leaving just the torso Sparrow gave him and the frame he was encased in.

Danse unclasped the torso and let it drop as Arthur halted his charge just before the Castle’s wall and turned around, rage twisting his face. According to the rules of the trial by combat, he would have to exit his power armour and fight in hand-to-hand combat now.

But the Elder didn’t. He just charged again, steps shaking the ground, and it was all Danse could do to avoid the attack.

“Paladin!” Ingram’s voice cost him precious seconds as he looked in her direction. The legless Proctor threw him a weapon he vaguely recalled peeling from the carcass of a behemoth in Boston Common – a power fist, a gauntlet/cestus combination with a piston that added force to the wearer’s punch.

He fell back, quickly fitting the power fist to his right hand as Maxson turned around once more.

“This is not a trial, this is an execution!” he announced.

“You agreed to Paladin Danse’s request for trial by combat, remember?” Ingram shot back. “By remaining in power armour after his was removed, you’ve broken one of the cardinal laws.”

Proctors Quinlan and Teagan exchanged looks as several of the other Brotherhood members were nodding. Reluctantly but nodding in agreement.

“As such, Arthur Maxson, you’ve forfeited the match. Paladin Danse has won the trial by combat.” Ingram’s tones were like the beaten earth of the Castle’s courtyard – smooth and hard.

“It is a synth!” roared the Elder. “It has no rights-“

“Until the Elders formally close that little loophole Scribe Finlay found, the synth has every right as an acting member of the Brotherhood of Steel,” Quinlan admitted unhappily. “It is the spirit of the Litany, as well as its letter, an Elder must embody.”

“Never thought I’d see a fucking synth uphold the Litany better than a Maxson,” Teagan agreed disgustedly. “Stand the _hell_ down, Elder. You’ve lost.”

Danse settled into a defensive stance, waiting for Maxson’s next action.

…

Sparrow’s fingers twisted in nervousness as she waited for her gambit to play out. Weeks of perusing the Litany and reading the records on the Prydwen, applying all the legal training from another life to her current situation, trying to uphold the rule of law in the Brotherhood where it threatened to go in the direction of might makes right. For this, she would have laid down with Arthur Maxson while mourning Danse’s absence. But when Arthur sent her after Danse to execute him without due process, she had enough.

Around her, the Minutemen began to crank their muskets in case he decided to cause trouble. Ronnie Shaw had agreed to play along with her plan because despite their bravo, the citizen soldiers didn’t have enough artillery to cover their territory yet and vertibirds could hit hard and fast. A war between the Minutemen and the Brotherhood would tear the Commonwealth apart while only the Institute, the Gunners and the other rogue factions won.

“Democracy, the rule of law, the freedom of the press and the political neutrality of the military are the pillars of a just society,” she said, stepping out from the crowd to stand between the men. “America forgot that once and it led to the Great War. Might is often necessary to keep the peace, but it should never be the _only_ means and it should never be deployed for its own sake.”

She slowly turned around, looking ghoul, synth, Brotherhood soldier, Minuteman, Neighbourhood Watch and civilian in the eye. “There are enough factions represented here to start something great, if they wanted to. Hell, if the Institute wanted to play nice, I’d welcome their presence too – though I fear it’s probably too late for the zealots in their ranks.”

“The Institute ruined our _last_ attempt at unification,” Hancock pointed out.

“From the little my son told me before he tossed me out on my ear, I think it was a bit more complicated than that, but it’s beside the point.” Sparrow met the ghoul’s alien eyes, seeing the well-meaning community leader behind the chem-addicted façade. “We have Minutemen, Brotherhood of Steel, Goodneighbour and Diamond City represented here. Once, thirteen colonies signed a Declaration of Independence from a tyrannical power five hundred and ten or so years ago, and roughly a hundred years ago settlements united in the west to become the New California Republic.”

She smiled awkwardly. “I guess I’m hoping we could create a new government in the Commonwealth, open to anyone who proves themselves benevolent – ghoul, free synth, human. For every Courser, there must be a Paladin Danse or Nick Valentine; for every Fast Eddy, a Mayor John Hancock. As I said to Piper in my interview for Publick Occurrences – ‘seeing humanity rebuild gives me hope’. I am Sparrow Finlay, the Sole Survivor of Vault 111, the Woman Out of Time, Field Scribe of the Brotherhood of Steel. Please – show me we can rise above ourselves and become part of something greater.”

She looked to Arthur Maxson in his fancy Elder power armour. “Whatever happens to me and Danse is in the hands of the Brotherhood,” she said quietly. “But please, stand down and agree to this, for everyone’s sake. If you truly care about the Commonwealth, you will do this.”

…

Arthur Maxson slowly looked around at the Proctors, the Initiates and everyone else who’d followed him to the Castle to see a synth executed, acutely aware that the rug had been pulled out from under his feet. The soldiers he’d brought to the Commonwealth were those who wanted to settle down and establish a permanent encampment. They had been swept up in Sparrow’s eloquence like ravens in a headwind. He already knew that Danse would walk, the fucking abomination. It had made too many friends in the order to be cut down like the monstrosity it was.

“Well-played,” he rasped for her ears alone. “You’ve not only usurped my authority, you’ve completely obliterated it.”

“This was never about taking anyone’s authority,” Sparrow answered quietly. “This was about uniting people against a common enemy and to make a better future. You can still be a part of this, Elder Maxson.”

The belief shining in those brown eyes was sincere. She truly believed she was doing the right thing.

As did he. And in the Brotherhood, if you wanted to decide the course of the future, you fought for the right to do so.

“Get me some stimpaks and a pistol,” he said through gritted teeth as he stepped out of his armour. “Since you seem to think you know the direction that the Brotherhood should take better than me, we can settle this via trial by combat. You might even have a chance now your pet synth has softened me up a bit.”

If she flinched away from this, he would regain some authority amongst the Proctors. The synth had played its part well, he had to admit, but Sparrow was always the weak link.

Her jaw set stubbornly and she nodded. “Garvey, get me the pistol I brought with me to the Castle. I should use a Brotherhood weapon to end this.”

“You’ve never had the strength to handle a Brotherhood weapon,” Maxson pointed out as Knight Rhys brought medicines and a heavy laser pistol. “You’ve always used an Institute weapon in service to the Brotherhood.”

Sparrow exchanged a glance with Danse, whose expression promised retribution if the Scribe should die. Maxson hoped it was foolish enough to attack – killing the synth would be almost as good as letting it live on, desolate and mourning the woman it thought it had a right to love.

“And we’ve both served the Brotherhood well,” Sparrow said coolly as the Minuteman brought out the very pistol he’d given her to execute Danse with. “I assume that we walk ten paces and turn around to fire from the hip?”

“Yes,” he replied, startled she knew the duelling code.

“So be it. God help us all.”

She was the only one who needed help. Maxson would have her head for the damage she’d caused to the Brotherhood with her pre-War ideas when they’d caused the Great War in the first place.

…

It was Cait who called the count as she’d called the battle between Danse and Maxson. She didn’t know how the Brotherhood of Steel’s so-called leader used a pistol but she knew that Sparrow was actually a pretty decent hip-shooter. She also knew that Maxson wasn’t going to walk out here alive, not when the woman had fired up so many people about forming a government, if he killed her.

She still thought synths were pretty fucked up but some of them weren’t completely evil. Nick was alright and Danse was practically human. And with the Railroad going around and switching memories in people, how was she to know she wasn’t a fucking synth herself?

The Elder and the Scribe marched away from each other, pistols in hand, until she reached the count of ten. And then with a sudden turn, it was over.

Arthur Maxson was sprawled on the ground, clutching a smoking ruin of a hand as he screamed. If Cait didn’t know better, she’d have sworn Sparrow was on Jet, the woman moved that fast.

The Scribe walked over, pistol in hand, as the Proctors began to talk amongst themselves. “I don’t believe in killing young men who have the chance to grow up and do better,” she told him. “You were a child soldier, Maxson, and that left a lot of scars on your psyche. I know, my husband had similar emotional wounds because he enrolled in the army when he was sixteen.”

The Elder glared up at her and she sighed. “Go back to the Capital Wasteland with those who still wish to follow you. You’re the Elder of the Capital Brotherhood of Steel and I have no wish to change that.”

“If you think the Lost Hills Elders will allow this,” he began, voice tight with pain, only to be shut down with a single glance.

“I thought you wanted to tell the Lost Hills Elders to go fuck themselves?” Sparrow asked bluntly. “The values they made you swallow after they killed the Lyons made you lose today, Elder Maxson. Go home and take a long think about what you’d like the Capital Wasteland chapter to be. If you want to be friends with the Commonwealth, that’s fantastic. But if you want to start another war, rest assured that we’ll be ready and waiting for you.”

A strange expression crossed the young man’s face and he nodded slowly. Cait thought they should shoot him as an example but Sparrow was soft-hearted and optimistic to a fault.

”The Prydwen stays here,” Sparrow continued, looking him directly in the eye. “You can take as much power armour and vertibirds as you need to make the trek back home but the airship remains.”

“I’ll remain,” Proctor Ingram immediately said. “You’ll need someone to maintain the beast.”

Quinlan shook his head. “I’m going and so is the cat,” he declared. “I will not watch the Brotherhood be divided once again because of your naivety.”

“I’ll send out a broadcast and let the soldiers make their own choices,” Teagan announced. “Personally, I’m staying. Sick of pissing around the Capital Wasteland killing things, might settle down and farm or something.”

“We could have made the Brotherhood great together,” Maxson finally said, looking at Sparrow.

“If you hadn’t ordered me to execute Danse without due process, I’d be married to you right now,” Sparrow answered. “I believe in the Brotherhood, Arthur. I just think it needs to look beyond itself and be part of something greater.”

She turned away from the Elder of the Capital Wasteland Brotherhood as the few ones with any brains in their heads started calling her Elder Finlay.

Cait stared at her and re-evaluated her belief about happy endings in the Wasteland. Maybe with Sparrow’s help, she could find one of her own.

…

X6-88 exchanged glances with Father.

“Relay us back to the Institute,” the old sick man ordered as he wiped blood from his lips. “We have precious little time to get Project Exodus started before they come for us.”

The Courser obeyed but just before the blue-white light took them home, he looked over his shoulder at the aboveground factions preparing to unite themselves into a single alliance and wondered. About what, he wasn’t sure, but today’s events and Father’s musings had certainly gotten him thinking.


	11. The Long Farewell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sparrow Finlay has triumphed over one enemy and another wishes to parlay because her son is dying. But the one faction who didn't come to the conference table has other ideas on how the future should be decided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Jesus, that last story was a behemoth! Trigger warning for mentions of death, fantastic racism and violence. A particular head-canon on why V.A.T.s was mentioned earlier in the series as an actual thing. I admit, the Railroad irritates me and playing a playthrough with Deacon didn’t make me like them any more than I did before.

He was alive. Good fucking God he’d come out of this alive and whole and with Sparrow at his side.

Danse sat on the stairs that led up the wall to the right side of the Minutemen’s Castle two days after Maxson had the stuffing beaten out of him, his gun hand shot off and his ass thrown out of the Commonwealth back to the Capital Wasteland. Sparrow, now formally recognised as Elder Finlay of the Commonwealth Brotherhood of Steel, was haggling with Ronnie Shaw, John Hancock and Nick Valentine over the interim document that might pave the way to a Commonwealth Republic or some such entity. He couldn’t be prouder or more in awe of her.

“Paladin?”

He looked up at the sound of Senior Scribe Haylen’s voice. Knight Rhys had returned to the Capital Wasteland with Maxson, hatred burning in his eyes whenever he looked at Danse, and the synth couldn’t help but feel relieved to see him go. Once, he would have died for Maxson and for Rhys.

“So it’s still Paladin?” he asked hopefully. The Proctors and Lancer-Captain Kells, who’d elected to stay with his beloved Prydwen, had convened to discuss his unique case. Kells had been almost apoplectic when he found out about the High Elder’s actions and offered to stand down, alongside Knight-Captain Cade, when Sparrow was acclaimed Elder in the Commonwealth. Being the forgiving, understanding woman she was, Sparrow denied the offer and kept them in their positions.

“Well, technically no,” Haylen admitted. “They’d already decided to strip you of your rank. But since Colonels in the Minutemen are now considered to hold Paladin rank in the Brotherhood depending on the situation, you’re still Paladin Danse to me.”

Trust Sparrow to find a way around the Proctors’ decisions.

“You’d better not call me Paladin,” Danse advised one of his most loyal friends. “Colonel Danse is better than M7-97, I guess.”

“Indeed.” Haylen smiled briefly. “Oh, there’s some man in a black coat wanting to talk to you. He’s over by the radio talking to Codsworth.”

Danse looked up and saw a tall, lithely muscular figure in a too-familiar coat talking to the battered Mr Handy, who was positively ecstatic at how things turned out. “I’ll go investigate; put the Sentinel on alert but _discreetly_ ,” he commanded instinctively.

“Yes, Pal- sir.” Haylen caught the urgency in his tone and saluted before going to alert Brandis, who held the rank of Sentinel now.

Danse rose to his feet and walked over, fully prepared to rip apart another Courser. This one was darker than Preston with patrolman sunglasses that hid his eyes.

“Master Danse!” Codsworth enthused. “We have a gentleman wanting a word with you here.”

“So Haylen told me,” Danse observed, eyeing the Courser with open distrust. “Could you please go and make sure the negotiators have plenty of drinks that _aren’t_ alcoholic?”

“Certainly!” Codsworth shot off, glad to be of service, and left Danse alone with the predator of his kind.

“I’m not here to cause trouble,” the Courser said in his kind’s monotonous voice. “Father would not be pleased.”

Danse recalled that Sparrow’s son was called ‘Father’ for his genetic contribution to Gen-3 synths like himself. Then he shied away from that thought, a little uneasy at particular connotations. “Then why are you here?”

“The Brotherhood isn’t the only one to undergo a sundering,” the Courser reported quietly. “The Institute has also decided to divide itself in a matter of speaking.”

“Explain.” Danse’s voice was curt.

“We have always planned for every foreseeable circumstance, including the possibility of discovery and destruction,” the Courser continued, unbothered by his fellow synth’s tone. “To that end, we created two Projects – one called Exodus, in the event we chose to withdraw, and the other Ragnarok, in the event we chose to destroy the Commonwealth.”

Before Danse could demand more answers, the Courser smiled in what might charitably be called a reassuring manner by someone like John Hancock. “We chose Exodus. Father decreed that the experiment in the Commonwealth was at an end and the Gen-3 synths who could acclimatise to the world above be permitted to settle, without interference beyond observation by a select group of Coursers, in particular locations.”

“What does this mean for the Commonwealth?” Danse asked warily.

“It means that I hope Elder Sparrow was sincere in her desire to have the Institute present in the discussions, so long as we… what was the phrase… ‘are willing to play nice’.” The Courser clasped his hands behind his back as Maxson used to. “The synths and scientists who elected to remain held a vote and we decided to approach the Commonwealth instead of going into hiding or being destroyed.”

“You’ve caused a lot of misery,” Danse reminded him.

“I know.” The Courser didn’t sound remorseful, but then he likely didn’t know what that emotion was. “But so has the Brotherhood in the Capital Wasteland.”

“Why come to me, why not walk straight up to the negotiators and introduce yourself?” Danse demanded.

“Because you are a synth as I am who knows these people, M7-97. Because if I can convince you, I can surely convince the council or whatever they are calling themselves.” The Courser smiled again. “Because if it comes to a fight, you might even be a challenge. Your model was a prototype – somewhere between an ordinary synth and a Courser – that was engineered to be stronger, faster and more loyal to an individual.”

Danse felt his lips peel back in a snarl. “I am Colonel Danse of the Commonwealth Minutemen.”

“So you are. My apologies.” The Courser didn’t sound very contrite but that might be the toneless voice. “Father told me to refer to you as Danse. I am designated X6-88, Father’s personal bodyguard.”

Danse throttled down his urge to choke the synthetic life out of the Courser. “I ripped the head off a colleague of yours.”

“Z2-47? Yes. Impressive – your strength percentiles were off the charts to tear off a Courser’s head.”

“I was in power armour.”

“Then allow me to thank Father you’re not in power armour now,” the Courser drawled with what could almost be called humour. “So, are we going to fight or am I permitted to address the others?”

Danse turned his back on the synth. “I’ll let the commanders decide what to do with you. Come with me.”

…

The first thing X6-88 did after delivering greetings from the Institute remnant was to hand Sparrow a piece of paper with a series of numbers and words written on it. “My recall code,” the Courser said calmly. “In case you don’t feel I am trustworthy enough.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Ronnie drawled in disbelief. “Why?”

“Because the Director’s mother achieved what the Institute had never believed possible after the Commonwealth Provisional Government went to hell because of factional disputes – unity,” X6 answered serenely. “The synth representative was the last one standing and so we received the blame and chose to withdraw.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Hancock said bluntly. “You sent infiltrators into homes and families.”

“Yes.” X6 was unrepentant. “The Institute is a group of scientists and needed to run experiments.”

“If this shit had happened pre-War, you’d be facing crimes against humanity charges,” Sparrow said flatly as she leaned forward. “However, no one has really come out of the Wasteland with clean hands and I’m betting everyone involved in the synth programme has fucked off on Project Exodus.”

“Everyone except for Father,” X6 admitted. “He is… dying of cancer. He wishes to die at home.”

The revelation that her son was terminally ill rocked Sparrow enough that she actually staggered.

“That’s fine by me,” Hancock said grimly. “If he comes near Goodneighbour, I’ll blow his head off.”

“I assure you, Mayor Hancock, your den of filth and iniquity is nowhere Father would wish to come,” X6 drawled sarcastically.

Sparrow got her shit together. This was important. “These are the terms for the Institute’s remnant to remain in the Commonwealth,” she decreed, voice a little shaky from the Courser’s revelations. “One: your teleportation technology is turned over to the Minutemen and the Brotherhood. You may maintain your own molecular relay as we know the signal but we intend to set up our own networks. Two: your little hidey-hole is going to be destroyed. You can join the rest of us in the muck and grime and radiation.”

“Acceptable,” the Courser agreed readily. “Between Madison Li and Brian Virgil, I imagine you would have plumbed the secrets of the molecular relay eventually regardless.”

“You’re not bothered by us destroying your home?” Preston asked in some disbelief.

“So long as we are given the chance to remove everything, the destruction of a hole in the ground is nothing,” the Courser replied.

“You have two weeks,” Sparrow told him.

“Three. Father would like to see you and the cancer has become aggressive, so moving him isn’t an option.” X6 paused, his expression actually concerned. “He was coughing blood when he came up here to watch the fight between Danse and Maxson.”

“That’s bad,” Cait confirmed grimly. “Once you start coughing blood, you’re dead meat walking.”

“Then I’ll come see Shaun immediately,” Sparrow said, her heart in her throat. “If I’m not back in a day, the Institute will be blown sky-high.”

X6’s mouth curled into something that was definitely a smirk. “I’ll keep an eye on the watch then, Elder.”

“You do that, Courser,” Danse ordered curtly. “Because if she dies and you somehow survive, I’ll make what I did to your friend Z2 look like a child’s tantrum.”

“Model glitch,” the Courser said, jerking his thumb at the dark-haired soldier. “When they perceive their charge to be in danger, they tend to go a bit… ah… berserk.”

“We’d better put the Elder under protection then,” Nick drawled. “Sparrow, want me to come? Got a few questions of my own to ask the Institute.”

“You’d be welcome, Nick,” she said, feeling better about having a friend go with her. She believed the Courser but… she still felt better.

“Then we might as well adjourn this meeting,” Ronnie declared. “And if the Elder isn’t back in a day, we blow the C.I.T. Ruins to hell and back.”

“She and Nick Valentine will return, I promise.”

“I don’t like this,” Danse told Sparrow.

“I know. But… whatever he’s become, he’s my son. And if he’s sincere, this could save a lot of lives.” Sparrow smiled at him reassuringly. “Have some faith, Danse.”

“I have faith in you. The Courser is something else.” He glared at X6, who returned the look calmly.

Then it was time to relay and she prayed she’d made the right choice.

…

After all that happened, Shaun had never expected to see his mother again. The radiation from the surface was enough to steal what little energy he had and so he lay in a medi-bed, waiting the end after his first and only visit.

X6-88 relayed directly into his room with a slender, chestnut-haired woman clad in the Brotherhood of Steel’s uniform, only dark grey-black and silver-grey instead of orange and beige. There was a battered Gen-2 synth with them dressed up as a detective of all things.

“We have 23 hours and fifty-five seconds to return the Elder of the Commonwealth Brotherhood of Steel and synth detective Nick Valentine to the surface before we are ‘blown to hell and back’,” X6 reported dryly. “Otherwise, we have three weeks to evacuate before the Institute is ‘blown sky-high’.”

Shaun raised an eloquent eyebrow at his mother. “Distrust runs so deep?”

“Partly. But you need to join us in the muck and grime and radiation to truly comprehend what life is like up there,” she responded in that warm, smoothly modulated voice.

“And you agreed to this?” he asked X6.

“Of course. I have noticed that our scientists dwell in the sphere of the intellectual and do not appreciate the full ramifications of their actions,” the Courser answered.

“What’s he doing here?” Shaun looked at the battered Gen-2.

“I’m curious as to what I am,” the synth admitted. “Also, figured Sparrow could use an old friend.”

“That’s easy enough to answer,” Shaun said, laying back in his comfortable bed. “You are the bridge between Gen-1s and Gen-3s with the personality of a 21st Century detective from the BADFTL. X6, forward all appropriate folders and holotapes to Mr Valentine.”

“Of course, Father.”

“Why the sudden burst of compassion and empathy for the Commonwealth?” Sparrow asked as she wheeled a chair over to sit next to him.

“I’m not sure,” Shaun admitted with a sigh. “Perhaps it’s your sincerity. Perhaps it was to irritate Arthur Maxson – I ordered X6 to kill him and blow up the Prydwen if Paladin Danse died, you know. Maybe it’s simply because you’re my mother and you’ve managed to achieve the impossible.”

“Thank you,” Sparrow said simply. She glanced to X6. “I don’t want to be rude, but I’d like to be alone with my son for a while.”

X6 glanced at Shaun and he nodded. The Courser took Nick Valentine off, no doubt to collect those files. Then Sparrow smiled and leaned closer.

“The unification gambit was a whole load of bluff and bullshit,” she murmured. “But if Maxson comes back, there’ll be artillery in every settlement and a united Commonwealth government waiting for him.”

Shaun found the energy to laugh. The grand gesture that encouraged him to enact Project Exodus and grant the synths supervised autonomy had been smoke and mirrors, as the old proverb went.

Then he spat out some blood and whispered something in his mother’s ear, a son’s final gift to the woman who’d given him – and the synths – life. She went still and nodded slowly.

“What was my father like?” Shaun asked.

Sparrow went still and began to talk of the precise, broken, brave soldier who was Shaun’s father. Artificial night fell by the time she was done and when her voice was raw, she rose and poured herself some water, bringing some for him too.

He drank and cleared his throat. “Thank you,” he said simply.

“You’re welcome,” she answered just as plainly.

Shaun studied her face with its scars and the paler patch beneath her left eye. With a scientist’s care, he traced the outlines of the scar and the tracking of the pupil… and smiled.

“You have an Institute eye.”

“I do. Once, this place was a great haven of knowledge and technological advancements. After a car accident where I lost an eye, my mother – who was in military intelligence – pulled some strings and got me into the same experimental programme that copied Nick’s brainwaves for posterity,” she admitted quietly. “They couldn’t get the synth-skin quite right but the V.A.T.s programme installed in the eye has saved my life more than once.”

Shaun grinned like the boy he had been once. “That’s how you beat Maxson.”

“Yes, and that will go to the grave with me. The Brotherhood is very conservative and it was all I could do to let them allow Danse to have free access.” She sighed and looked to the ceiling. “Your predecessors made a lot of mistakes, Shaun, and you’re the one paying for them.”

“Indeed,” the Director agreed. Soon, this haven of pure sterility would be destroyed to preserve the future. “Mother, take the holotapes about the CPG.”

“I will. The Institute’s responsible for a lot of grief but _that_ wasn’t their fault,” she readily promised.

Shaun shifted and stared at the ceiling. “Could you take the synth-Shaun? He’s… been rewritten to believe he’s human and your son.”

“Why?” she gasped.

“Because we lost too many years and you were right to tell me that experiment was incredibly selfish and cynical.” Shaun sighed and coughed some more. “He’s essentially me at ten years old.”

“I’ll have to be upfront about him being a synth to the Brotherhood,” she pointed out.

“You’re in love with a synth. Surely they can forgive a child.” Shaun smiled, proud of his greatest creation. “He will grow up and become a man, Mother. His generation of synths can even procreate with each other.”

“Danse certainly can… ah… I won’t finish that sentence.” Sparrow blushed a dark red and her son laughed.

“The M7s and their successors are the pinnacle of our work, short of the Courser,” he told her. “Speaking of which, I’ll give you the Courser recall codes. They have agreed to act as guardians of the Gen-3s but it’s possible that like any sentient creature, they could go down a dark path none of us would like.”

She nodded slowly. “X6 seems very fond of you.”

“He was my guardian Courser as a child and is my greatest friend,” Shaun admitted. “If you had given your allegiance wholly to us, I would have transferred his allegiance to you.”

“X6 is a person – a tall, dark and snarky sonuvabitch – but a person regardless,” Sparrow said firmly. “You can’t ‘transfer’ sentient creatures’ allegiances to others like they’re property.”

“And that was the mistake we made with the Gen-3s,” he said, allowing himself the stark truth with this woman. “We treated them like constructs when they are as complex as any other sentient being.”

“Your work will live on in its way,” Sparrow promised, brushing away his hair with a gentle hand as mothers did. “The crop modifications, the water and air purifiers, the medicines…”

“Commend Madison Li on her defection. If I’d known she was that competent, I might have named her my successor,” Shaun said dryly. “How did you talk her into joining the Brotherhood?”

“Told her to grab every bit of civilian science she could and join me,” Sparrow promptly said. “She was once a Brotherhood Scribe until the mess in the Capital Wasteland and it left scars.”

Shaun nodded. Madison was both cynical and an idealist. A strange mixture for a scientist. If he’d been younger-

“Thank you for not using Liberty Prime,” he said quietly. “That would have been… terrible.”

X6 suddenly relayed into the room, face stark with rage and terror. “Elder, would you care to explain why forces have infiltrated the Institute and are attacking?” he demanded.

“Not on my order or anyone else’s,” she said grimly, standing up. “Any identifying marks?”

“Beyond the ballistic weave that’s in their clothing, no,” the Courser answered, looking to Shaun.

“The Railroad,” he gasped. “Those fanatics have found a way into the Institute!”

Sparrow’s expression was grim. “Can you broadcast to the surface? I need to warn the Minutemen and Brotherhood.”

“The one faction that did not come to the conference table,” X6 noted dourly.

“Indeed. We’d hoped they’d settle down once the synths were living their own lives but… no.” Sparrow’s voice was hard. “Get Nick out of here so he can warn the others-“

“Belay that,” Shaun said, his voice given strength by the rage that flowed through his dying veins. “Get them and Shaun-2 out of here, X6, and sound the evacuation order.”

His mother threw him a startled glance. “Shaun-“

“Goodbye, Mother.”

His dream was dying but he would not let the Railroad destroy hers.


	12. A Mother's Wrath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hell hath no fury...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, massacre, violence, grief and mourning. Working out my irritation with the Railroad here, so this is not a Deacon-friendly story. This is the dark side of revolution and consolidation of government. :(

Blue-white light lit up the sky.

“What the hell?” Ronnie Shaw barked as everyone dropped what they were doing to look at… Yes, Cambridge. Something had exploded in Cambridge near… Oh God, the C.I.T. Ruins-

Danse stared at the fading light in horror. Had the Institute decided to spite them one last time, take away the one thing that unified the Commonwealth, had they-?

He vomited at the thought of Sparrow dead and fell to his knees. If she was dead, oh God if she were dead-

“That wasn’t us!” Someone was screaming a protest. “That wasn’t us!”

“ENOUGH!”

Like a clarion of salvation, Sparrow’s voice cut through the panic and babbling, anchoring Danse as the void threatened to consume him.

“What happened?” Ronnie demanded as Danse painfully got up, consciously aware of the vomit on his knees.

“The Railroad happened,” Sparrow reported in a sick voice. “Guess they were running their own plans or something.”

“Mother?” asked a boy with her chestnut hair and rosy skin, his eyes a startling green-hazel. “What’s going on?”

“The Institute has been destroyed,” X6-88 said tonelessly but Danse could see the bleak rage in the lines of his lean face.

Danse remembered that the Institute had created a boy-synth to lure Sparrow along; this might be him. A final gift from her birth-son, an apology? They’d never know for certain.

Ronnie Shaw’s jaw set stubbornly. “Attacking the Elder of the Commonwealth Brotherhood’s considered an act of war, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Danse and X6-88 said in unison.

“I want some answers,” Sparrow said flatly. “If only I knew where to find-“

“I know,” Danse said, clearing his throat. “I know. They decoded the Courser Chip I found in Z2 and I had no choice but to leave it with them. They’re in the Old North Church. Guess they found a way to access the Institute.”

“A mistake, M7-97, one that nearly cost your charge’s life,” X6-88 chided bitterly.

Sparrow took a deep shuddering breath. “Somebody get Shaun some proper clothing. Danse, work with X6 and Ronnie to secure the Old North Church. I want it locked down because I want answers.”

She went over to the ham radio and snapped out a series of orders that began with the Prydwen being evacuated to half the Knights and Paladins armouring up and coming to the Castle while the others watched over the non-combatants and prepared for trouble, and ended with “Ad Victoriam, we are at war with the Railroad.”

When she turned away, there was a cold rage in her eyes that would have frightened Danse if it had been directed at him. Gone was the charismatic peacemaker, the broken fragile creature who took shelter in his arms and the woman who had defied Arthur Maxson and shot off his hand to protect those she held dear. In her place was a frankly terrifying entity that promised hell on those who murdered her son.

Even X6-88 looked awed. “I always thought Father’s temper came from his father, but I see I was wrong.”

Danse could only nod in mute agreement with the Courser as his lover walked towards the guest quarters.

Brandis tapped Danse on the shoulder. “I’ll handle the Brotherhood side of things,” the Sentinel said. “Go take care of her.”

The former Paladin nodded again and saluted, grateful to have some orders he could obey.

…

Warm, muscular arms embraced her as a broad bare chest pressed against her back.

“I need a clean uniform because the thought of you dead made me sick,” Danse whispered in her ear. “What happened?”

Sparrow turned in his arms to face the worried expression twisting his rugged features. She was torn between an ocean of grief too vast and deep to comprehend and a torrent of cold rage that demanded retribution for the murder of her son, no matter how flawed and broken he’d been. “We were talking, Shaun and I, saying our farewells… when the Railroad attacked. X6 thought I’d betrayed them until I realised it was the Railroad and…”

She choked back a sob. “I wanted to send a broadcast, to warn you, and fight but Shaun had me, his synth child-clone and X6 relayed to the surface and the evacuation sounded.”

Danse’s lips tightened. “In the end, maybe your son had a moment of humanity.”

“Maybe…” Sparrow rested her forehead against his. “The Railroad could have come to the conference. God knows that the Minutemen were broadcasting it throughout the Commonwealth…”

“Indeed.” Danse’s voice was hard. “I won’t weep for the Institute. I sorrow at your grief, nothing more. But the Railroad has declared war on our allies and we must answer it appropriately.”

“Thank you, Danse.” She stood on tiptoes to kiss him briefly, only to be picked up and braced against the wall.

“Please,” he growled. “The thought of you dying… I need to know you’re here with me.”

She let her head loll back as his mouth left red marks on her neck. “Yes,” she breathed. “I’m with you.”

…

The Railroad was celebrating its victory and never knew what hit it. Coursers and Paladins worked together to take out the sentries while Minutemen guarded the entries and accepted surrenders. When it was all done, the Predictive Analysis Machine rewritten with a virus to work for the Commonwealth United Republic, the few surviving leaders were rounded up in their main HQ to face some very, very pissed off people.

“We helped you!” snarled a dark-skinned man in strange headgear at Danse. “Twice!”

“Your actions also nearly cost the Commonwealth Brotherhood its new Elder,” the former Paladin snapped at Tinker Tom. “The bastards responsible for the synths got away regardless; the remnants agreed to unite with the Brotherhood and the Minutemen.”

The leader, a mousy-looking man in rugged clothing named Desdemona, looked both grim and defiant. “You made an agreement with the Institute, even knowing what they did, M7-97?”

“Colonel Danse of the Minutemen,” Danse answered flatly. “The… less extreme remnants agreed to share their superior technology and allow the synths supervised autonomy. They’d perfected the design and were seeding settlements with Gen-3 synths. We were going to destroy their base in three weeks so they had to join the rest of us up here.”

“We’d broadcast the conference for anyone interested in the future of the Commonwealth to join us at the Minutemen’s Castle,” Sparrow added coldly. “You could have sent a representative.”

“Why were you at the Institute?” Desdemona demanded.

“I was saying farewell to my dying son, its Director,” Sparrow retorted harshly. “Shaun realised what he’d done was wrong and… well. A lot of civilians died in your attack – men, women and children, both synth and human.”

“Elder?” Sturges finished hacking Tinker Tom’s terminal. “They was planning to take down the Prydwen too.”

“If you’d bothered to pay attention to anything other than the cause of liberating synths, you would have known the Brotherhood had a schism over synths and Arthur Maxson was sent back to the Capital Wasteland with those still loyal to him,” Sparrow continued coldly. “You would have wound up murdering squires and civilians on the Prydwen too.”

Tinker Tom looked a little sick but Desdemona and the dark-haired man Danse vaguely recalled as Deacon were defiant. “The Institute and the Brotherhood were both dangers to the synths-“

“And I suppose you would’ve wiped out the Castle too,” Sturges observed with disgust.

“The Minutemen aren’t a danger to synths,” Desdemona said flatly.

“You’ve got a one-track mind there, woman,” Ronnie said disgustedly. “The Institute are assholes, no one’s denying it. But you could have joined us and hashed it out with what’s left of them instead of blowing the place to kingdom come.”

“So what are you going to do now?” Deacon asked scornfully.

“Execute you three for crimes against humanity and other sentient beings,” Sparrow answered flatly. “The synths you freed will be spared and integrated into the Commonwealth United Republic so long as they are no danger to anyone. Those who have surrendered to us will be questioned, put on trial and punished accordingly.”

Desdemona spat and it hit Sparrow’s boots. Danse stepped forward to retaliate but he was waved back by the Elder.

“No one in the Commonwealth comes out with clean hands, Desdemona,” the small woman observed with a regretful sigh. “Not me, not you, not the Minutemen, not the synths. But I can make you a promise.”

“What’s that?”

Sparrow drew her pistol, the gun Maxson had given her. “That the Commonwealth will be ruled by a law that doesn’t distinguish between human, synth or sentient ghoul. I hope that makes you better.”

She executed the leader of the Railroad cleanly, a bullet to the head. Desdemona swayed and fell to the side, collapsing against Tinker Tom.

“Didn’t know you had kids on the Prydwen,” the dark-skinned man said sadly. “Didn’t know about the kids in the Institute.”

“Did you think they replicated themselves magically?” Sparrow asked acidly. “You, I pity a little.”

Tinker Tom pulled himself up with dignity. “I killed kids, ma’am. You do what you gotta.”

Danse nodded in salute of the man’s courage as Sparrow shot him. Once, he was as blind as any Railroad operative, only in the opposite direction. Now… he was getting there.

Deacon suddenly moved, pulling a combat knife from his boot, and lunged for Sparrow. He got her in the gut, the serrated blade scything through the grey-black fabric, and once more in the chest before Danse was able to pull him off and snap his neck.

“Stimpak, now!” he barked as he knelt down to staunch the flow of blood from the wounds. “Nonononononono don’t leave me-“

“I love you,” she gasped, touching his face before the fingers slipped away.


	13. That Sparrow's Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An end comes to all things. Danse must say farewell to his Sparrow and learns the reason for her name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warning for mentions of death, grief and mourning, and suicidal ideation. Thanks for encouraging me to write this series and staying with me through the journey. :) The quoted poem is Frances Ellen Watkins Harper’s ‘The Sparrow’s Fall’.

Sparrow survived and saw the Commonwealth United Republic be formally recognised by Mayor McDonough, who had a tragically fatal accident a few months later. The Railroad had taught her the necessity of carefully wielded ruthlessness as Arthur Maxson had failed to do.

The first President of the Commonwealth, much to his dismay, was John Hancock of Goodneighbour. The ghoul turned out to be an enlightened but somewhat anarchistic leader, retiring from the position after his four-year term and returning to his home settlement. The following Presidents over the next twenty years were a mixed bag – some good, some average, one truly awful and put on trial for crimes not publicly recorded but instead put in the secret archives.

But at nearly fifty years of age, the pure uncorrupted genetics that made the Finlays so precious to the Institute were failing her as the rads finally got to her. X6-88 wanted her to upload her brain to a new synth body while Hancock offered to help her become a ghoul.

Sparrow refused. She was exquisitely mortal, broken and brilliant, compassionate and cruel, and finite in her mortality. She would die and go to whatever fate awaited mortals on the other side.

Synths, much like ghouls, did not age past a certain point. Danse and Shaun, who’d grown into a strapping young man with Nate’s face and eyes, her rosy skin and hair that was between her chestnut-brown and his jet-black strands, were still vital and strong. Her synth family, a replacement for what was lost; Deacon’s gut stab left her unable to bear more children, which was heartbreakingly relieving to Sparrow. No more children to be taken from her.

In the Prydwen’s medi-bay, Danse held the frail hand of his dying wife. The final cruelty of the Institute, denying him the ability to age, to join her in that long journey into the twilight. Only battle or accident could remove him from this world. He wondered, briefly, if her refusal to become a synth or ghoul had everything to do with her being reunited with Nate and the human Shaun in the afterlife. That wasn’t a question even he could ask her.

“Colonel Danse? There’s an incoming vertibird from the Capital Brotherhood.” One of the Initiates stuck her head inside. “What do I do?”

Though he was no longer a Paladin in name, Danse had trained most of the successive generations of Paladins and Knights after Brandis died. He still wore power armour and still commanded respect from the Commonwealth Brotherhood of Steel, but he was no longer of the fraternity and the scars still lingered.

“Who’s on board?” Danse asked as Sparrow stirred weakly.

“Elder Maxson, sir.”

“Let him on board.” Sparrow’s words were soft but clear.

“Yes, Elder.” The Initiate saluted and left.

Danse’s grip tightened around Sparrow’s fingers. “What the hell does he want?”

“To say goodbye?” Sparrow shrugged weakly.

The synth wished that Maxson could be anywhere else. News from the Capital Wasteland was that he ruled with an iron fist as ruler in his own name, a grim synthesis of conservative Brotherhood values and the compassion taught to him by the Lyons. But he had never come to the Commonwealth, not again, though occasionally messages were exchanged between Elders.

Too soon, far too soon, Maxson was filling the doorway in his iconic battlecoat, stark shock painting his face. He was still broad-chested and heavy-shouldered, scar-faced and bearded, but there was grey streaking that brown hair and his blue eyes were colder than before.

If the young Maxson Danse had known had been a prince, this one was a battle-hardened king.

“Sparrow.” The man’s voice, still raspy and guttural, cracked and he cleared his throat. “What-?”

“Cancer. Just like my son,” Sparrow answered with the grim quirk of her mouth. “Why the social call?”

Danse rose to leave. Though he was trusted with many things, the Proctors insisted that internal Brotherhood business was none of his concern. But Maxson waved at him to sit down before taking the other chair.

“No social call,” the Elder rasped. “I assume you’re fairly up to date on Western Brotherhood business?”

Danse knew that after Maxson’s defeat and exile from the Commonwealth, his legend had been shattered and the tentative alliance between Brotherhood chapters shattered. The Midwest had merged with the Capital Brotherhood and the Outcasts stayed with Maxson while the Lost Hills chapter went its own way. The fate of the others was unknown.

“I stopped receiving messages from Lost Hills after I returned the head of the last assassin they sent,” Sparrow said dryly as she sat up in her chair.

“The Mojave and Lost Hills chapters merged to resist the NCR,” Maxson elaborated dryly. “They bled the Republic dry.”

“Oh hell.” Sparrow had always made noises about reaching out to the NCR but because things were always troubled in the Commonwealth, she’d never gotten the chance to send a messenger. “What happened?”

“Caesar’s Legion – a charming group of psychopathic murderers – wiped out the NCR and tried to take New Vegas in revenge for some insult or another,” Maxson replied grimly. “It didn’t work because the Courier joined forces with the Brotherhood chapters there and defeated them.”

“The update on Western Brotherhood activities is interesting, but why are you here?” Danse asked bluntly. Maxson was interrupting time with his dying wife.

“Because the Western Brotherhood has decreed war on _us_ , the Eastern Brotherhood, as heretics,” Arthur said flatly. “They’ve incorporated the remnants of Caesar’s Legion and the NCR into their ranks and so long as New Vegas is left alone, the Courier will support them.”

Sparrow looked at him penetratingly and said, “You need the Prydwen.”

“I need the Prydwen,” Maxson confirmed. “I’d hoped that the Commonwealth would join the Capital Wasteland in alliance, but if you’re dying…”

“For alliance, you’ll need to speak to Sonia Garvey, the current President, and the Council,” Sparrow said quietly. “You know that there are ghouls and synths on the Council, right?”

Maxson grimaced but nodded. “I do. And at the moment, I’ll take the synths and the ghouls over the Western Brotherhood. You’re not the only one who was targeted by assassins.”

Sparrow studied her fellow Elder for a moment and then nodded. “I’ll give you your toy back, Maxson, on two conditions.”

“What are they?”

“One, you allow the Commonwealth Brotherhood to abide by its rules, not yours. I’m sure you noticed the gentleman who would have greeted you at the front door was a synth. I also have some ghoul Scribes.”

Maxson’s face screwed up in distaste but he nodded.

“And two, Danse is reinstated as Paladin. I couldn’t override the Proctors because I’m his wife, but you can.”

Danse’s fingers dug into Sparrow’s frail hand until he realised he was hurting her and loosened the grip. “Sparrow-“

“I’m going to be dead soon,” she interrupted quietly. “Shaun has his family in Diamond City but what will you do when I’m gone?”

“I’d intended to join you,” he admitted softly. “You are my life.”

“I was your life after the Brotherhood threw you out,” she corrected gently, brushing his cheek with thin fingers. “I have people waiting for me on the other side but when I’m dead, who will you have?”

“I never realised what I lost when I gave the orders to kill Danse until I returned to the Capital Wasteland and the Brotherhood politics there,” Maxson said slowly, interrupting the conversation. “I’ll not only reinstate Danse to the Brotherhood, I’ll raise him to Sentinel.”

“Thank you, Arthur,” Sparrow said with a grateful smile. “My successor’s Haylen as Elder. Shaun wanted to live his own life, so he never became a Squire, and she’s… well, been the most loyal.”

“Done.” Maxson’s face had returned to its usual frown. “Sparrow, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

“For what? If you hadn’t been such an ass, the Commonwealth United Republic wouldn’t have happened,” she retorted amusedly.

Maxson gave a half-laugh, half-snort. “You always had a knack for putting people in their place.”

“I know,” she said complacently. “Are you done? I’d like to spend a little more time with my husband before he leaves me.”

Maxson, for the first time Danse had ever seen, saluted her. “Ad Victoriam, sister.”

Sparrow saluted him in return. “Ad Victoriam, brother.”

The Elder left and Danse looked at his wife. “I’m not leaving you,” he insisted.

“Yes, you are.” And it wasn’t the frail, mortal woman who replied, but the Elder of the Commonwealth Brotherhood. “I need to know that you will go on after I leave you.”

Danse suddenly shuddered and choked out a sob, crushing Sparrow’s hand with the tightness of his grip. “As you command… Elder.”

Her face slackened with relief, still lovely despite the creases of pain and age. X6 and Shaun had never understood her refusal of immortality but in this moment, seeing the luminous quality of her rich brown eyes, Danse understood and envied her mortality.

“I love you, my soldier of steel,” she whispered. “Now go. Keep Maxson out of trouble.”

“I love you too,” he choked out, “And always will. Ad Victoriam.”

“Ad Victoriam.” Sparrow fell back into the bed, releasing his hand.

Danse rose to his feet, saluted the Elder of the Commonwealth Brotherhood of Steel, and turned for the power armour bay.

From war he had come, to war he would return.

Then he stopped, looking over his shoulder. “You never told me why your parents called you Sparrow.”

Her smile was sweet and lovely and sad. “It’s from an old poem: ‘Too frail to soar -- a feeble thing -- It fell to earth with fluttering wing/But God, who watches over all, beheld that little sparrow's fall’.”

She breathed the rest of the poem as Danse listened, transfixed by its haunting verses:

“’'Twas not a bird with plumage gay,

Filling the air with its morning lay;

'Twas not an eagle bold and strong,

Borne on the tempest's wing along.

Only a brown and weesome thing,

With drooping head and listless wing;

It could not drift beyond His sight

Who marshals the splendid stars of night.

Its dying chirp fell on His ears,

Who tunes the music of the spheres,

Who hears the hungry lion's call,

And spreads a table for us all.

Its mission of song at last is done,

No more will it greet the rising sun;

That tiny bird has found a rest

More calm than its mother's downy breast

Oh, restless heart, learn thou to trust

In God, so tender, strong and just;

In whose love and mercy everywhere

His humblest children have a share.

If in love He numbers ev'ry hair,

Whether the strands be dark or fair,

Shall we not learn to calmly rest,

Like children, on our Father's breast?’”

She smiled sweetly, lovingly, and closed her eyes. Danse saw the rise and fall of her chest, and with a breaking heart, turned away once more.

To war he was born and to war he would return. But for her and in memory of her, he would fight to protect, to save… to love.

 _Ad Victoriam, my sparrow, Ad Victoriam._ _Ut semper diligam te._

_I will always love you._


End file.
